


lean into a loved body

by simplyclockwork



Series: beehives and honeycomb [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A very very happy ending, AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beekeeping, Burglary, But also a dumbass dry waffle, Coping, Depression, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, Farmlock, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Inspired by Stardew Valley (somewhat), John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, John is a badass sometimes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mycroft is a grumpy sod, Nightmares, POV John Watson, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Personal Growth, Post-Divorce John Watson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Soft Boys, Stardew Bee Boy, Stardew Valley Inspiration, Strangers to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Tag courtesy of a tumblr reblog, Trauma, casework, farms, idiots to lovers, mild Self-harm, mystrade, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 60,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Still reeling from Afghanistan, John Watson moves to farm country after inheriting his late grandfather’s property. There, he tries to come to terms with his new reality, the work cut out for him, and the failure of his marriage.To top it all off, his awkward, bee-loving neighbour is kind of a madman.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper/Kate, James Sholto & John Watson, Mary Morstan & John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: beehives and honeycomb [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875580
Comments: 249
Kudos: 448
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, Chelle's Fic Recommendations, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A great big, huge, _massive_ thank you to [AnneCumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch) and [OmalleyMeetsTibbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs) for all their support, encouragement, and the amazing beta work they did. Without them, this story would not be what it is, and I owe them my firstborn for all their hard work, dedication, and for listening to me drone on endlessly about this fic, and for all the walls of text I sent them in the group chat. 
> 
> Y'all are amazing ♥️
> 
>   
> I've marked this fic with _'Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings'_ because it doesn't fit any of the listed warnings. While the majority of the story is rather gentle and reflective, even fluffy, there are some darker moments in which John struggles with his mental health and PTSD. Please heed the tags.
> 
> This story is inspired, in part, by the game _Stardew Valley._ You do not need to have played the game to read the story, but if you have, you might recognize a few nods toward the game.
> 
> Also, I have since made a map of the town/area where the story takes place: [Starvale Township](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EnY5DaCW4AgqQXM?format=jpg&name=4096x4096)
> 
> \---
> 
> _I’d heard about it.  
>  So the day the swarm  
> attached  
> itself to the siding,  
> I went into the yard,  
> stood a long time  
> where the brush pile  
> wrecked the grass.  
> The swarm  
> kept churning its insides out.  
> Where was the yellow?  
> There,  
> like little lights turning off.  
> Then, thinking hard,  
> I slipped  
> my arm in, one of the more  
> surprising things  
> I’d done._
> 
> _But the sensation  
>  of reaching into  
> a loud solid black  
> ball that turned out to be  
> just air  
> kept tricking me, as if finally  
>  **I’d let myself lean into  
>  a loved body**  
> and the loved voice kept entering  
> through my ear  
> and skull and shoulder bones  
> until the voice,  
> and my hazardous  
> need to feel it,  
> were the pressures that made my breath  
> come in and leave me, were  
> the urging under my blood  
> that would never end as long  
> as the voice kept  
> sounding,  
> and I grew anxious, because  
> if the voice stopped,  
> I might shut down like an unplugged  
> machine. But  
> there was no loved  
> body to catch me._
> 
> _Just air  
>  between my fingers  
> and the voice  
> I dropped through  
> and the black  
> hard cool insects  
> that didn’t sting me._
> 
> _  
> **The Bees: Anne-Marie Cusac**  
> _

Coffee in hand, John surveyed the land in front of him. The farm stretched out, 10 acres of poorly-maintained property gifted to him upon the passing of his maternal grandfather. The acreage seemed endless from where he stood, the haphazard terrain draped by low-lying fog. Inhaling, John breathed a heady lungful of temperate, wildflower-scented air, and found himself hard-pressed to miss the smoggy, grime-heavy haze of London. Maybe he would eventually ache for the noise and clutter of the city he had once called home. Looking over tangled brambles, thick stumps, and scattered rocks, thinking of how they limited the potential of the land, John suspected it would be a while before he had time to feel nostalgic. 

Setting his coffee cup on the porch railing, he rolled up his sleeves and trotted down the stairs. John moved across the overgrown land with care, skirting unsteady rocks and avoiding creeping roots reaching to trip his feet. The early-morning haze of fog sent a chill through him despite the warmth of the sun on his skin, and a damp mist seeped through his jumper. The cold sank tentative teeth against his left shoulder, worrying at the poorly healed bullet wound and scar tissue. Rubbing the flat of his palm against the twisted ache, John paced around a formidable mass of brambles, eyeing the thorny stems with trepidation. Hands set on his hips, he studied the mess until his attention was gradually drawn away by a low, droning buzz. 

Following the noise, John navigated his way through a small copse of tightly-growing trees. Four steps in, the growth cleared and spread out, and he found a black, writhing mass on a tree trunk. Moving closer, he discovered the mass was not a living nightmare as he originally thought, but a swarm of bees, huddled in a shifting cloud. The industrious insects crawled over one another, filling the air with their rumbling resonance. 

“Damn.” John’s head tilted back, the misty air beginning to thin enough to let more faint rays of sunlight filter through, warming him further. “Just what I need.” He turned his back on the swarm and made his way to the porch, rubbing his hands together to warm his fingers in anticipation of what looked like a day of hard work. 

* * *

Mid-day found him swinging an axe, hacking away at wild brambles with each fall of the blade. The movement tugged at his healing shoulder, forcing him to push past the twinge of pain the longer he worked. The fog had finally cleared, the warm sun drawing sweat over his upper body, thin t-shirt clinging to his back and chest. Clad in jeans cut into shorts at the knee, John still felt the impressive heat with every rise of his arms. 

There was something satisfying about manual labour. In the way it built a pleasant ache throughout his body. It gave the satisfaction of a job well done, instead of the lingering putrid bite of illness he had grown accustomed to. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder during his last tour in Afghanistan, leaving him to fight for his life, first in bloodied sand, then in a field hospital through months of recovery.

John had returned to London a broken man. Invalided home by a government who no longer had use for him, he had tried to move forward, to build a new life in his old world, leaving behind the violence of war and battle. Instead, he came home to an alcoholic sister doing her best to drown at the bottom of a bottle, and an absent wife who was uninterested in holding his hand through the PTSD nightmares that ripped apart his attempts at sleep. 

Then his maternal grandfather passed away, leaving his farm to Harry and John. The drive was close to seven hours from London, a veritable day-trip for Londoners and a world away from what he had once called home. With two dead parents and Harry sneering at the idea of “digging in the dirt like a dog,” John had accepted the deed. Packing his meagre belongings into several boxes and a duffle bag, he left London behind. John told himself he wasn’t running away, that it wasn’t fleeing. He was simply beating a tactical retreat away from a life that had nothing left for him. Mary had filed their divorce papers as soon as John signed them before immediately moving in with a man named David, whom John suspected she had been sleeping with since his first tour in Afghanistan. 

When he called to say goodbye to Harry, she had been too drunk to understand him on the phone. 

A few days after leaving London, he stood on a 10-acre farm that was half-wild and overgrown with weeds, littered with stumps and oversized rocks, uncertainty humming through his body. It was far from perfect but, with hard work, it might be something he could feel proud of.

Pausing to wipe his face, flicking salty drops from his damp hair, John looked up from his work. He squinted against the sun as he noticed a figure approaching from the direction of the road leading up to his house. He straightened and lowered the axe, setting it head-first against the ground at his feet. 

“Hello!” The intruder lifted a hand in greeting, the other cradling something against his chest. As the stranger moved closer, John made out features: a warm, friendly face and short, salt-and-pepper hair. “Sorry,” the approaching man called, his smile turning wry. “I didn’t mean to trespass, just wanted to come by and meet the new neighbour.” 

John leaned the axe against a stump and wiped his sweaty hands on his cut-offs. “Um. Hello,” he said, accepting the man’s handshake. His grip was firm, skin warm and dry against John’s clammy palm. “Sorry, but who are you?”

The man grinned. “Greg Lestrade.” He nodded back the way he’d come. “I have the property next to the one Northward of yours.” Turning, he looked John over, taking in his rough clothing. “I heard there was a newcomer moving in, figured I'd introduce myself.”

“Right.” John offered a hesitant smile, Greg’s own grin easily infectious. “John Watson, the newbie.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Watson.” 

John shook his head. “Actually, it’s Doctor Watson. But please, call me John.”

Greg’s smile widened. “John it is.” Shifting, he retrieved the object tucked under his arm. “A welcome gift. I brewed it myself.” He sounded pleased, eyes glinting with pride as John reached out to take the four-pack of what he realized was homemade beer. 

“Oh, thanks,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Um, I’d invite you in but I still haven’t unpacked…” 

Greg waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. Next time.” His grin was wide and unbothered. John felt himself relaxing in the man’s easy presence.

“Deal.” He gestured for Greg to follow him toward the house so he could set the beer on the porch. 

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, huh?” 

Turning, John saw Greg surveying the property. He sighed, “Yeah. Bit of an understatement.” 

Greg glanced his way. “If you need a hand, let me know. My husband is absolutely useless with these things, but he’s away a lot, and I’m usually bored out of my mind.” He raked a hand through his short hair. “By the way, I’m with the police force in town. It’s pretty quiet, not a lot happens here.” His face turned apprehensive. “Hopefully that doesn’t scare you away.” 

John snorted. “I’ve had more than enough excitement for fifty lifetimes.” At Greg’s confused expression, he added, “I just returned from my third tour in Afghanistan.” 

“Oh!” Greg’s face lit up before he turned sombre. “Thanks for your service, mate.” John nodded, his expression strained. Looking him over, Greg asked, “Third tour, you said? How many left?”

Mouth tightening, John looked out over the farm. “None.” He swallowed and fixed a flat expression on his face. “Took a bullet and was sent home.” Shrugging, he waved a hand over the view. “Can’t do surgery with nerve damage in my arm, but I should be able to hack away at this for a while.” His smile returned, tight and uncomfortable. “I’ll be helping out at the clinic in town, just part-time. Locum work. Something to help with the military pension.”

“Ah, yeah.” Greg nodded. “I’ve heard it’s not much. A real shame, that.” 

John shrugged again. “Better than nothing.” 

An uneasy silence fell, and he winced, missing the easy conversation. Looking to change the topic, he tapped a hand against his thigh. “Actually, there might be something you could help with.”

Greg looked relieved, his bright smile returning. “Yeah? What’s that?” 

Squinting against the sun, John shut one eye and frowned. “You know anything about bees?”

* * *

Staring at the swarm, Greg whistled. “Yikes,” he said, sounding impressed. “That’s a big one.” 

John’s mouth twisted, pulling to the side in a grimace. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know much about bees, aside from they sometimes make honey and they’re important.” When John began to deflate with disappointment, Greg held up a hand. “However, I _do_ know someone who can help.”

“Oh?” John looked up, hopeful. Greg nodded.

“Yeah. My brother-in-law keeps bees.” He pointed north. “He lives on the other side of you, actually. He’s kind of obsessive about it. Makes and sells his own honey, plants all these insane flowers. Mike—he runs the general store part-time, you probably know him from the clinic, he works there, too—has to order them in special from who-knows-where.” Slipping his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, Greg rocked back on his heels, offering a reassuring smile. “He’s a little odd, but he’ll know what to do. I’m sure of it.”

John smiled, feeling relief at the words. “Thank god,” he sighed, breathing out slowly. “I don’t want to kill them, you know?” Frowning, he looked at the swarm again. “But I can’t just leave them there.”

Greg nodded his agreement. “No, for sure. Look,” he straightened, letting his hands fall loose at his sides. “I’ll let Sherlock know. No idea when he’ll come by, he’s terrible for showing up unannounced or not at all, but I bet he’ll be by eventually. Never can resist a swarm, that one.”

One of John’s eyebrows quirked. “Sherlock?” 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Weird name, I know. I thought my husband’s name was weird, but Mycroft isn’t half as strange as Sherlock. Also, I should warn you…” He paused, shrugged and added, “He’s kind of an asshole.” 

“How so?”

Greg shook his head. “I’d explain, but it’s really better if you meet him and see for yourself.” He tilted his head at the bees. “Okay if I let him know about this?” 

John nodded, still feeling relieved despite Greg’s words of warning. “Sure. I’m settling in for the next week or so before I’m officially on call at the clinic, so I’ll be around.” 

Grinning, Greg reached out and gripped his shoulder. The gesture was unexpected, and John fixed an awkward smile on his face, grateful he hadn’t grabbed the injured one. “Fantastic. I’ll shoot him a text when I get home.” Glancing at the sky, Greg sighed. “I better be getting back. Mycroft usually calls around two o’clock. If I miss it, I’m likely not to hear from him for a week.” He flashed another grin. “Good meeting you, John.”

“Likewise,” John replied. He accepted another firm handshake. 

* * *

Nursing one of Greg’s beers, refreshing and better than he’d anticipated, John sat on his porch and watched the blue sky fade, the sunset painting the horizon with orange and reds. In London, the smog and city lights always distorted the sky, hiding the cosmos. Here, In the countryside, the light pollution was minimal at best, and the night sky was always a dark, inky black speckled with vibrant stars. John tipped the bottle against his lips and tapped his foot to a snippet of song in his head, watching as the sky faded from bright oranges into gentle purples and blues, waiting for night to fall and the stars to scatter across the heavens. 

He looked up at a sudden, unexpected sound. His body stiffened, on sudden high alert, his ingrained instinct to meet any threat head-on spilling adrenaline through his veins. “Hello?” John called, squinting into the fading light.

A shape moved, shifted with the falling shadows, and solidified into a man. This time, it wasn’t Greg. The stranger approaching John’s porch was tall and slender. Outlined by the sinking twilight, his angular face was sharp under tangled locks of dark hair. As John watched, the man shoved curls away from his forehead and narrowed his eyes. 

“John Watson?”

John rose, setting his beer aside as he moved down the stairs. “Uh, yeah?” He squinted, taking in the man’s lithe form. There was a large cardboard box under his arm, and John looked at it with confusion. “Are you Sherlock?” 

One of the man’s eyebrows quirked. “I am.” His eyes roved over John, their strange, silvery-blue colour glittering in the fading light. Sherlock’s gaze was hard, seeming to strip away layers of John’s skin with just a glance. It left John feeling exposed, and he frowned, folding his arms over his chest. The sensation sat uneasily on his skin. He was still wearing the t-shirt and cut-offs, and John found himself almost wishing for full combat gear under that piercing stare. 

“Greg said it might be a while before you came.” It was a pointless statement, and Sherlock’s brows rose once more. 

“Yet, here I am.” His eyes flickered over John again before he looked past him. “I take bee-keeping very seriously.” His voice was low, level, and severely polite. “When bees swarm, there is no telling where they might end up.” He looked back at John, his eyes just as sharp as before. “If you would be so kind?”

John blinked, taking precious seconds to realize Sherlock was asking John to show him to the swarm. Clearing his throat, he nodded. “Yeah, alright.” His hands clenched, the fingers of his left twitching until he stuffed it into a pocket. “It’s this way,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff. Sherlock cast a curious glance his way but strode forward without question. They fell into step with one another, the tall man quiet at John’s side. Brow furrowed, John watched the ground, his focus on navigating the uneven terrain in the shadowy evening light. 

Sherlock didn’t seem like the asshole Greg had said he was. A little odd, yes. Definitely that, but not the rude person John had expected. He glanced at him, caught Sherlock looking back, and dropped his eyes back to the ground, narrowly avoiding a tree root. Clearing his throat, John turned his attention back to watching his step.

They heard the bees before they saw them. Though not nearly as loud as earlier, seemingly subdued by the falling night, they were still conspicuous. The air was growing colder, and John suppressed a shiver, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze when it darted his way. 

“If you’re cold, you don’t have to stay.” Sherlock sounded distracted, looking at the swarm with a small crease between his brows. “This might take a bit.” 

John shook his head before settling back on his heels, arms folded over his chest. “I’m good. I want to see how it works.” 

Sherlock stared at him, faint surprise passing over his face before he nodded. “If you’d like.” Focusing on the swarm again, he knelt on the ground and opened the box. Inside was a folded, pale blue sheet, a yellow-bristle brush, a small spray bottle, gloves, a bee-keeping helmet, and an assortment of objects John had no idea the purpose of. He watched as Sherlock spread the sheet on the ground and set the box on top, slipping on the gloves and veiled head covering. Emptying the container, Sherlock stepped toward the tree, the intensity of the swarm’s humming increasing at his approach. John tensed, but Sherlock looked unconcerned, spraying a fine mist from the spray bottle. The buzzing settled into a heavier drone, the bees moving slowly in a shifting mass.

To John’s shock, Sherlock used the yellow-bristled brush to sweep the swarming insects into the cardboard box. They crawled over his gloved hands and up his arms, strangely docile as Sherlock guided them inside, depositing bees until the tree was bare. Closing the lid, Sherlock gathered his supplies in the middle of the sheet, twisted it into a neat knot, and looped it over his other arm. When he stood, he turned to John with a polite expression. 

John looked back at him, blinked and exclaimed, “Brilliant!” 

Sherlock froze, his face shifting with stunned confusion. His eyes closed and opened slowly, lips twitching. “Thank you?” It emerged as a question, and John grinned.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he said, rocking on his heels. “That was amazing. I can’t believe you just…” he gestured, uncertain of the right words, “ _swept_ them off the tree like that.” 

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curled upward. “It’s common practice.” John had the odd feeling his attempt to downplay the compliments was uncharacteristic. Sherlock almost looked shy, eyes flickering away, his cheeks faintly pink. John shrugged and shook his head. 

“Well, it was pretty damn impressive to me.” 

Clearing his throat, Sherlock’s eyes returned to his face. “Right.” After a pause, he smiled back, a slow grin that showed his teeth in the dark. “Well.” The smile faded, and he gestured to the box. “Better be going.” 

John nodded. “Of course. Um, thank you, by the way.” He offered a nervous smile, prompting a searching look from Sherlock. 

“It was no problem,” he said slowly. “I should be thanking you, actually. I’ve been looking for a new swarm for a few weeks now.” Lifting the box, Sherlock peered inside. “I have a hive set up already. I think they will transition well.” He let the lid drop. “This swarm seems particularly docile.” 

Leaning forward to glance at the box himself, John heard the faint hum of the swarm within. “Do you have many hives?” 

Sherlock looked up again, settling the container against his hip. “I have five. This will be my sixth.”

“Six hives!” John paused. “Is that a lot? I don’t know anything about beekeeping.” He smiled, chagrined. Sherlock’s lips quirked again, hinting at the same shy smile as before.

“It’s a fair number,” he admitted. “I produce my own honey and sell it locally.” He hesitated, uncertain. “Do you...do you like honey?” 

John grinned. “Quite a bit. Great on toast and in tea.” 

The small smile returned. “Good to know.” Sherlock looked toward the darkened sky. “I should go.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” John coughed quietly, shifting his weight. “Of course.” Sherlock seemed to hesitate, and John rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’d like to thank you anyway,” he said, the words rushing out. “Do you, you know...Do you eat lunch?” _Smooth, Watson_ , John thought, wondering why he was suddenly so tongue-tied. “I mean, obviously you _do_ , but, uh…”

To his relief, Sherlock only stared at him for a second before nodding. “I have been known to eat lunch sometimes, yes.” 

Laughing, John grimaced. “Yeah, sorry. Bit stupid, me.” He cleared his throat. “Well, if you’re free sometime, I’d like to say thanks. With lunch.” He paused, deciding that dinner was too forward and he had already embarrassed himself enough.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his searing gaze raking over John once again. As with before, it left him feeling stripped down to the bone. John suppressed a shiver and wet his suddenly dry lips with a sweep of his tongue. Sherlock tracked the movement, gaze flickering over John’s mouth, and John quickly pressed his lips together. 

“Um. Sorry,” he said, uncertain what he was apologizing for. 

Sherlock smiled his small smile again. “No apology necessary. Lunch would be appreciated. I should say, however, that I am rather busy. It may be a while before I have some free time.”

Recognizing a gentle rejection when he heard it, John pushed back his disappointment and nodded. Simultaneously, he wondered where the disappointment came from in the first place. “Of course,” he said, swallowing around the urge to cough. “Also, call me John.” After a moment, he held out his hand. Sherlock took it, his grip all long fingers and cold skin. He was still smiling the little smile, coy enough for it to feel like they had shared a secret between them.

“A pleasure, John.”

* * *

After Sherlock disappeared into the night, John navigated through his new property and back to the house. He stomped up the steps, the old boards creaking under his boots. Kicking them off inside, he boiled water for tea. His fingers, sorting through varieties of herbal combinations, began to shake.

Nighttime was always hard. 

By the time the kettle whistled its readiness, John’s body felt tense, whipcord rigid like the over-tightened strings of a violin. Eyes fixed on the faint colour seeping from a sachet of chamomile mint tea into the hot water, he sank his teeth hard against his bottom lip, bit until it turned white, and breathed out loudly through his nose. 

When he felt like this, tremorous adrenaline ricocheting through his body like an oncoming storm, John almost couldn’t blame Mary for walking out on him. The self-awareness didn’t make the reality hurt any less, but he kind of understood. 

Mug cradled between his hands, the left jittering in a complex dance, John stared out the window at the night. He watched it consume the final dregs of fading sunset on the horizon and plunge the view into a black wall, barely kept at bay by the yellow glow of the kitchen light. Bringing the mug to his mouth, lips brushing the water-warmed edge, he sipped scalding tea and forced it down until an aching burn warmed the sensitive lining of his throat. John coughed and closed his eyes, steam warming his jaw and the tip of his nose.

Later, he knew he would wake to damp sheets, his body drenched in fear-sweat, reeking of unhinged terror and the unnecessary dump of adrenaline in his veins. Sitting in the kitchen, John blinked slowly at the darkness outside and drank his tea. It was supposed to be soothing, should have been a comfort. But nothing had felt like a comfort, not for a long while. Not since a bullet hammered him forward into a faceful of sand and launched him deep into a pit called infection, one he dragged himself out of with tooth and nail and screaming, clawing tenacity. 

Frowning, John thought of Sherlock. Thought of bees and what it would be like to swarm and create a new version of himself. To split off from the original and leave behind the broken, empty husk of the man he brought home from a warzone. 

John looked out the window. Drinking his tea, he knew he would dream of death.

* * *

Predictably, he woke with the sunrise, gasping the dregs of his terror through gritted teeth. As he breathed through a clenched jaw, John realized the nightmare and the rising sun weren’t the only things to wake him. The sound came again, a knock at the front door, identifiable now it was no longer distorted into the percussion of automatic machine-gun fire by his overactive imagination. 

John dragged himself out of twisted sheets, ignoring the fact he was clad only in a pair of thin, cotton pyjama bottoms with sweat cooling on his skin. He moved through the house to the kitchen, pausing to rub a hand over his foggy eyes before opening the door. 

Standing on his front porch, looking more together than anyone had the right to at such an early, god-forsaken hour, was Sherlock. Dressed in a checkered Oxford shirt that seemed strangely out of place on his lanky frame, and dark trousers tucked into boots, he looked like a fashion model forced into an aristocrat’s best guess at lumberjack attire. His hands were stuck into his pockets, his curly hair a wind-tossed mess. 

“Um.” His brain still sluggish from broken sleep, John’s coherency was limited. “Hello?”

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock’s greeting was easy, his face set in a mild expression. His eyes flickered to John’s left shoulder, the starburst wound bare and obvious with the absence of a shirt. 

John cleared his throat and tilted toward the outerwear hanging beside the door to pull on a coat, catching but choosing to ignore the glint of curiousity in Sherlock’s gaze. “Something I can do for you?” 

Sherlock nodded, silently respecting John’s topic change. Rolling morning stiffness from his shoulders, John stepped aside to invite Sherlock into the house. With a tilt of his head, his neighbour accepted, moving through the kitchen with his bright eyes darting over the interior. In the sharp light of morning, they were a silvery blue ringed with verdant green, an enigmatic prism of shifting colour. John averted his gaze when they fixed on his face with an intense weight that made him feel like he had never put on the coat to cover the gnarled flesh on his left shoulder. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said in reply to John’s question, “you can.” Moving gingerly, he leaned against the edge of the kitchen table in a seemingly awkward attempt to make himself at home despite the hesitant countenance of his sharp face. “I believe you might be able to assist me with a rather frustrating problem I’ve been having.” 

After wordlessly offering toast to his guest and being politely refused, John dropped a slice of bread into the toaster and reclined against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. “What kind of problem?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. Setting them against his bottom lip, he surveyed John with his piercing gaze. “Someone has been stealing my wildflowers.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Your...wildflowers?” he repeated, perplexed.

“Yes.” Frowning, Sherlock flexed his long fingers. “I grow many varieties, most of which are rare and hard to acquire. Coaxing them to grow and thrive in this unfamiliar climate has been an arduous task.” His lips curled downward in a grimace. “Having them repeatedly stolen is most frustrating.” 

Bemused, John retrieved his toast as it popped up. “Right,” he said, reaching into a cupboard for the jam. “A wildflower thief. Sounds dangerous.” His amused tone received no response from the man behind him, and John glanced over his shoulder to take in Sherlock’s expression. 

Sherlock looked thoughtful before moving toward him, long legs crossing the small kitchen in a few steps. “Here,” he said. “A gift.” From seemingly nowhere, he produced a small glass jar. 

Taking it, John looked at the thick, golden contents, tinted slightly amber. “Honey?” he guessed. 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. From one of my more industrious hives.” His lips curved into a demure smile. “You said you were partial to honey, and I thought it would be well received.” 

“Ah, thanks.” John cleared his throat and shifted his weight. He shot a look Sherlock’s way and turned to fish a knife from the dishrack. When he opened the jar, a sweet aroma drifted out, luscious and heady, reminding John of summers spent under a blazing sun with grass-stains on his boyish knees. 

Shaking the memories from his head, John frowned and avoided Sherlock’s steady gaze as he spread a syrupy layer of honey over the browned surface of the toast. He could still feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he took a bite, the observation expectant and weighted. 

The honey hit John’s tongue in a burst of sweetness, sugary and thick. There was a subtle musky taste, almost like smoke or an aged whiskey, introducing levels of flavour he had not expected. John felt his brows rise and turned to look at Sherlock. He found him leaning against one of the kitchen chairs with a coy smile on his face. Swallowing his mouthful, John tilted his head.

“What gives it that flavour?”

Sherlock’s smile widened. “Tell me what you taste,” he said, skirting the question.

John took another bite, chewing slowly, considering. His eyes slid shut. “Campfires. Aged whiskey, almost like a scotch. Sort of...a crystallized caramel.” His eyes popped open, still under Sherlock’s close observation. He was hanging onto John’s every word, and John swallowed, suddenly self-conscious. “If that makes sense.”

Sherlock nodded. “It does.” He looked pleased. “There was a fire last year. Not in the immediate area, but the smoke blew here on the wind. It lent a rather unique flavour profile to the harvest.” He tilted his head. “I’m impressed you noticed. Most people just say it tastes like soot.” 

His brow furrowed, John studied the amber-coloured liquid. “Pity for them.”

Sherlock’s smile returned, smaller and reserved. “Indeed,” he replied before subsiding into silence. John ate the rest of his toast and washed down the crumbs with a glass of water. Setting the dishes in the sink, he turned back to Sherlock.

“So. You said I might be able to help with your problem?” 

* * *

Mid-morning found him and Sherlock crouched in waist-high grass, sparse inches between their bent legs. The sun, still low in the sky, was already beating hot upon the back of John’s neck. It created a new layer of sweat over what had dried from his nightmares, and he wished he had taken a shower before agreeing to accompany Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s property was smaller than John’s, and far wilder, even with the amount of work John still had cut out for him. Walking from John’s land to Sherlock’s, they passed a rather quaint, if somewhat ramshackle, cottage. It was set on stone steps and foundation, with two heavy, massive oak pillars bordering a black door, the dark paint peeling off in flakes. Moving beyond the house, they forged into the tall grass. Hunkered together, Sherlock pressed a finger to his closed lips to signal silence. 

After a quarter of an hour, the muscles in John’s thighs began to complain, harmonizing with the sore ache in his upper body from his work the day prior. The sensation greatly increased his desire for a warm, relaxing shower, and he shifted back on his heels with a grunt, annoyed by his wandering mind. Sherlock’s eyes darted toward him as John sighed.

“What are we waiting for?” he hissed, frowning when Sherlock tried to shush him. “ _Shh_ yourself, my legs are killing me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The thief, obviously.” 

His tone was gruff and short, and John squinted back at the garden, beginning to understand what Greg had meant. For the umpteenth time since he had opened his door to Sherlock that morning, John wondered what on earth he was doing with this man. Sherlock was a virtual stranger. Aside from his frankly astonishing beekeeping abilities, John knew next to nothing about him. Yet, here they were, squatted together in the grass on Sherlock’s farm. 

Idly, John wondered if anyone would ever find him if Sherlock decided to shift his rude attitude toward something less friendly. Like kidnapping. The thought was grim, perhaps a tad dramatic, but made a smile tug at John’s lips nonetheless. It was quickly wiped away when Sherlock tensed beside him, sucking air in through his teeth. 

“There! Did you hear that?” 

John narrowed his eyes. Instinct won out over caution, and he dropped to his belly in the dirt, flattening the grass underneath him. Blood thundered in his ears, vision sharpening with the sudden epinephrine his adrenal glands dumped into his veins. Without pausing to consider the forwardness of his actions, John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and wrenched him down. Ignoring the way Sherlock went stiff and wide-eyed beside him, John closed his eyes, pinpointed the source of the sound, and surged forward, scrambling against the dirt and throwing himself at the intruder. 

With his fingers spread and reaching, he caught handfuls of earth and vegetation as he landed on the ground. The thief spooked and skittered away from him, and John looked up into the face of a startled deer. A half-eaten plant, torn out by the roots, dropped from its open mouth. 

Lifting his head, John blinked up from his sprawl on the ground, the wild animal regarding him from a distance with pricked ears and flaring nostrils. Hoofbeats vibrated through the soil beneath his body as the deer fled at Sherlock’s approach. With dew soaking through his jumper, John closed his eyes and pulled in a steadying breath before looking up at Sherlock standing over him, blocking the climbing sun with his slender body.

Lips quirked, Sherlock held out a hand to help him up, asking, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

* * *

“How did you know?” 

“How did I know what?” Sherlock tilted his head. 

John looked up from his hands with a frown. “That I was in Afghanistan. How did you know?”

Watching Sherlock salvage what was left of several uprooted plants, John found himself roped into helping build a deer-proof fence around a patch of vibrant flowers. After the first several posts, staple-gunning chicken wire to wood became a fluid routine, Sherlock holding the fencing material in place while John secured it. 

Wiping sweat from his brow, John watched Sherlock straighten out another length of wire. “Well?”

Sherlock held the fencing as John clipped several staples in place before turning his attention to John. “I thought it was fairly obvious.” 

John’s mouth twitched, his face undecided in whether to grin or snarl. In the end, he pressed his lips together and did neither. “Not to me, it’s not.”

Sherlock straightened from his bent position with a sigh. He pressed his hands to the small of his back and stretched out his spine with a crack. “I wonder what it’s like.”

John frowned. “What?”

Sherlock studied John’s face, his eyes darting over John’s figure as the sun drew sweat from their pores. “What it’s like for all of you ordinary people, living in those funny little heads of yours.” Sherlock looked wistful as if he was not part of the ‘ordinary people’ class.

John stiffened, uncertain but feeling the statement had been some kind of insult. “Excuse me?” The words were strained, ground out through his teeth. Sherlock’s brow wrinkled in response.

“No offense meant, John,” he assured, offering a mild smile. “I tend to see the world differently from most. Because of my...let’s call it, ‘increased focus,’ I observe more than the average person.” He shrugged. “So, to me, your military background is rather obvious.” 

Tightening his grip on the staple gun in his hand, John clenched his jaw. “How so?”

Sherlock sighed. His expression flickered, emotions passing too quickly for John to identify before settling on resigned. “First, the most obvious—your wound.” He gestured to John’s left shoulder, the mark of a bullet now covered by his sweat-darkened jumper. John flinched, and Sherlock dropped his hand. “Clearly a bullet wound, large calibre and recently healed. Poorly, I might add. The nerve damage is obvious and, I’m sure, very painful.” He raised his eyebrows, and John jerked his head in a stiff nod. After a pause, Sherlock said, “Sorry.” The tone was strangely hesitant as if the word were unfamiliar and foreign in Sherlock’s mouth. John looked away, the fingers of his left hand flexing.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. Sherlock’s tense expression eased somewhat. Clearing his throat, he continued. 

“The injury speaks to a specific type of gun. I only had a brief glimpse, but the scarring is clearly from an exit wound, meaning the bullet entered from the back. My assumption is some kind of long-range weapon. Sniper rifle?” At John’s jerky nod, Sherlock inclined his head in acceptance. “Not a weapon commonly used outside active combat zones. When you dropped into the grass, you pulled me with you, an obvious military response to protecting someone you perceived, in the moment, as a civilian.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, flicking over John’s tense stance. 

John stared back at him, breathing shallowly as the words washed over him. He didn’t speak, couldn’t quite find the words, and Sherlock went on.

“Even without the injury, your service is evident. Your haircut, the way you carry yourself, your posture, they all scream military. Despite the shake in your left hand—an obvious symptom of the nerve damage I mentioned, and partly psychosomatic—your fingers are otherwise deft and precise. Considering how quickly you agreed to help me, instead of throwing me off your doorstep when I must have woken you at what many consider an ungodly hour, you are clearly used to a lifestyle of staying alert, instantly ready for anything.” Sherlock’s lips pulled to the side in an aborted smile. “With your willingness to help a literal stranger in an unknown capacity, combined with the entry angle of the shot, I surmise you were an army doctor. Field surgeon, perhaps?”

John raised his eyes from where they had dropped to the ground. He felt unbalanced, his emotions caught between skepticism and awe. “How could you possibly know that?” 

This time, Sherlock’s lips formed a complete smile. “A bit of a guess but a good one, based on the evidence. You care about people, John.” His expression turned sombre, and his earnest, vibrant eyes fixed on John’s face as his voice slipped into something almost fervent. “You are compassionate. A man of action, shot while on his knees. The bullet didn’t bring you to the ground, you were already there. Why? You could have been kneeling to line up a shot on a rifle, but given your willingness to help me, a man you know nothing about, and your dexterity, you were a field medic. You nearly tackled a wild animal earlier, so you have an instinct for risk.”

“It was just a deer,” John mumbled. Sherlock let out a soft chuckle.

“Yes, it was. Though, you had no way of knowing that when you leapt. You merely acted, with no pause for consequences. You saw danger, and you went.” His brows rose. “Very ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ of you. Also,” Sherlock hesitated before clearing his throat, a faint flush rising in his cheeks as he added, “Also, Greg told me you were the new doctor in town, so the medical aspect wasn’t _really_ a guess.”

John’s mouth fell open, aghast. “You!” he sputtered. “That’s _cheating!”_

Amused, Sherlock shook his head. “Hardly. I would have deduced that part even without the prior knowledge.” 

“Right,” John muttered. Tapping his hands against his thighs, he frowned at the ground. “Bloody hell.”

“John, I didn’t mean...” Sherlock’s uncertain voice faltered, dying off when John stood straight again, a grin on his face.

“That was really brilliant, you know.”

Sherlock’s mouth clicked shut, and he looked dumbfounded. “It...what?” 

Blinking, John cocked his head. “It was impressive?” 

Eyes narrowing, his expression a mixture of confusion and suspicion, Sherlock slowly replied, “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they usually say?” John asked, cocking his head to the side, curious.

There was a strange vulnerability to the way Sherlock ducked his head and peered at John from beneath his lowered lashes. _“Piss off.”_

A startled laugh burst forth from John’s lips. After a moment, Sherlock joined him, his chuckle a low, pleasant baritone in the warm spring air. 

* * *

Finished with the deer-proofing, John’s hands were raw, fresh blisters marking his palms over top of the damage from his yard work the day before. The skin was red, peeling and tender, throbbing with a faint pulse. As he prodded at a particularly large blister and winced, Sherlock shot him a calculating glance. 

“Hungry?”

John looked up from exploring his sore hands in surprise. “What?” 

A faint flush infused the pale skin of Sherlock’s face. Clearing his throat, he glanced away, looking toward the distant mountains. “I. Well.” He turned back to John with hesitation in his expression. “You were kind enough to help me with my problem. An early dinner—or late lunch—seems like a fair offering for a man with blisters on his hands.” His eyes softened, darting to John’s palms. 

“You helped me with the bees,” John pointed out, tilting his head in the direction of his own property. “I’d say this makes us even.”

Sherlock's posture tensed, his face closing off like a shuttered window. “Ah,” he breathed. “Of course. My mistake.” Turning away, he began gathering the tools and remaining chicken-wire. When John lingered, biting his lip, Sherlock paused to look at him over his shoulder. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your evening, Doctor Watson.” 

“I, uh.” John swallowed, wincing when his hands flexed nervously and stretched the abused skin of his palms. “I didn’t mean…” He watched Sherlock straighten with the wire in his arms, a small frown on his face. John sucked in a breath and let it out in a rush, “Dinner sounds great, actually. If, I mean, well.” _Spit it out, Watson!_ “If you’re still offering.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, laser-sharp gaze raking over John’s face. His body language was stiff, fingers white-knuckled around the staple gun. Slowly, his expression eased, animation rushing back into his face when he relaxed. 

“I am still offering,” he replied, painfully polite. Feeling the tension ease out of the air, John smiled. 

“Alright.” He coughed, raising a hand to rub at his jaw and thinking better of it as his skin throbbed. “Great. Um.” An upward glance showed the sun creeping away from its zenith, hot and blazing down on them. “Mind if I go home first? I’d like to shower, maybe bandage my hands.” 

“Not necessary,” Sherlock quipped, turning his back as John’s mouth fell open in shock. “There is a shower at my place, and I have a cream that will take the sting out.” Readjusting his grip on the materials in his arms, he smirked. “That is...if you’re amicable?” 

John’s mouth went dry, and he had to swallow twice before he could reply. “Alright.” The word sounded unsteady even in his own ears, breaking off at the end and making him cough again. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, turning to lead the way back through the tall grass. Following in his wake, feeling blindsided and more than a little dazed, John’s mind raced. 

Was this a dinner invitation or something else entirely? They’d only just met, and he helped Sherlock build a fence, then agreed to shower at his place? Who did that? Was cream an innuendo? Was John absolutely insane? Nevermind kidnapper, maybe Sherlock was actually a murderer and Greg helped him find his victims. 

Sherlock stopped suddenly, and John drifted to the side to avoid running into him. “I can hear you thinking,” Sherlock said, shooting him a troubled look. “What’s wrong?” 

John shook his head, forcing a strained smile. “Nothing. Just…” he peered at Sherlock’s face, eyes narrowed. Sherlock stared back at him, bemused. “You’re not a murderer or anything like that, are you?”

Frowning, Sherlock blinked before inhaling slowly, as though with disappointment. “I was hoping you wouldn’t catch on so quickly, Doctor Watson.” He shrugged, raising his hands as if the situation couldn’t be helped. “Such a shame that I really _do_ have to kill you, now.”

“Pardon me?” John bit out. His back stiffened, and he curled his hands into fists, ignoring the fresh ripple of pain at the movement. 

Sherlock’s lips quirked, and John’s mouth fell open. He sputtered and shot a two-fingered salute at the man in front of him. “Nice sense of humour you got there.” 

“Mm, thank you, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock hummed, turning to follow a well-trod path through the grass. “Good to know you’re so gullible.” 

“I was a soldier, we’re trained not to trust people,” John muttered, falling into step with him. “It’s not really the same thing.”

Sherlock’s expression was pensive. “No,” he said, musing. “I suppose it’s not.” His eyes flickered, watching John from the corners. “I imagine you can’t stop.”

Surprised, John glanced at him. “Stop what?”

His eyes softening, Sherlock offered a small, sombre smile. “Looking for danger.” 

  
  
  


The inside of Sherlock’s house matched the scenery, just as ramshackle and wild as the surrounding land. Much of the front room was taken up by a sitting area, filled with a mix of unmatched furniture, a large wood stove dominating the corner by the windows. The kitchen was small and cluttered, the old, battered table covered with beakers, jars and a plate of oozing honeycomb. As Sherlock kicked his boots into a pile beside the door, John looked closely at a display of meticulously pinned bees hung on the wall, each labelled neatly in Latin beneath. Compared to the messy living space, the bee mounting was painstakingly organized, each insect pinned in the same precise spot on their tiny bodies.

“This is neat,” John commented, pointing at the display. Sherlock moved to his side and nodded, looking at the bees with a fond expression.

“Yes, it turned out rather well,” he agreed, a small smile on his lips. It faded quickly, and he clapped his hands together, suddenly brusque. “Right. The bathroom is down the hall, last door before the bedroom. Help yourself to any toiletries you find. There are fresh towels in the cupboard beside the sink.” Already striding down the hallway toward the door at the end, his voice drifted back to John. “I believe I have some clothes you can borrow that should fit.” 

Dazed once again, John removed his boots and set them neatly beside Sherlock’s carelessly discarded footwear. He hovered in the sitting room, waiting until Sherlock’s steps creaked over the floorboards, announcing his return with a bundle of fabric in his arms. 

“I, uh, I don’t have to...I really don’t mind going home.” John’s protests were silenced by Sherlock pressing the clothing to his chest. 

“Nonsense.” Sherlock stepped back and tilted his head toward the hall. “Please, make yourself at home.” With that, he swept past and outside, leaving behind his shoes, socked feet whispering over the porch before the door closed behind him. 

Staring at the clothing in his arms, John shook his head. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered. “Why not? I’ll just make myself at home in a stranger’s house, totally normal.” Still uncertain, he made his way down the hall to the bathroom, glancing at the kitchen on his way past. Closing the door behind him, he stepped into a bathroom with dark orange walls and a large shower-tub combo. The towels were where Sherlock had said, and John frowned at the soft blue cotton, lost in thought.

Maybe this was how it was out here, in the countryside. People were friendlier, more neighbourly? Greg had certainly seemed neighbourly, bringing home-brewed beer to a literal stranger for the hell of it. It was possible. Then again, free beer was lightyears away from showering in a stranger’s house one day after meeting them. 

Shaking his head and clearing away the thoughts, John set the clothing and towel on the counter, turning to the shower. The taps were stiff, and he had to fiddle with them for a moment before the pipes began to creak, water flowing from the showerhead in an icy stream that took several seconds to warm. Taking advantage of the delay, John stripped out of his clothes, wincing at the layer of sweat drying on his skin. His hands stung, peeling flesh catching on the fabric of his jumper as he pulled it over his head. 

By the time he stepped into the shower, the water was white-hot. John bit back a yelp and adjusted the taps until he found a balance, tilting his face up into the stream. 

  
  
  


Ten minutes later, freshly clean with damp hair, wearing a grey t-shirt that was slightly too big and his own jeans (the trousers had been much too long), John dropped his jumper and socks onto his shoes. Rolling his sore shoulders, he followed the soft sound of humming into the kitchen. 

He found Sherlock seated at the table, squinting at a jar of honeycomb. When he noticed John’s approach, Sherlock stopped humming and looked up. “Better?” he asked, and John nodded. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” Feeling awkward, he draped the offered trousers over the back of a chair. “I appreciate it.” 

Sherlock looked him over, eyes steely and searching before his lips curved in a slight smile. “You’re welcome.” He stood, pushing the chair back. “I have sandwiches in the fridge. But, first, let me see your hands.” 

Hesitant, John shuffled around the table and rested his hands in Sherlock’s outstretched palms. Sherlock lifted them toward his face with a thoughtful sound, tilting them this way and that before nodding. “I don’t think they’ll scar, but I imagine you already knew that, being a doctor.” His grin was borderline cheeky, and John chuckled, some of his trepidation easing.

“Yeah, you’re not wrong.” 

Humming again, the sound almost familiar as it faded from agreement into something musical, Sherlock released John’s hands to rummage through a drawer. “Please,” he said, turning back. “Sit.” 

John dropped into a chair and laid his hands palm-up on the table as Sherlock took a seat beside him. Still humming quietly, he tilted John’s left hand upward, squeezing an oily cream onto one of the larger blisters. The substance was cold, and John sucked in a breath, Sherlock glancing at him. His fingers were warm and gentle, rubbing the cream into and over John’s marred skin with careful, circular motions. The stinging abated almost at once, and John breathed a relieved sigh as the pain eased. Sherlock grinned. 

“I apologize for not offering you gloves,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “I admit, the thought did not occur to me. In hindsight, I feel rather responsible.” 

John shrugged, dismissing the apology. “It’s fine. I did most of this myself, working on my inherited mess.” He offered a tight smile. “I’ve had worse.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered up to his face, darting between John’s. “Yes,” he mused, sounding grave. “I imagine you have.” His gaze dropped back to John’s palms, allowing John to catch his suddenly fled breath. “A doctor really should take better care of his hands.” 

Suppressing a derisive snort, John swallowed loudly. “Yeah. Probably.” Something in his tone must have betrayed his strained feelings because Sherlock looked up again. John didn’t meet his eyes, his jaw tense as he watched Sherlock tend to his hands. Wordlessly accepting his silence, Sherlock began humming quietly again, rubbing slow circles over John’s palm. The motion was soothing, almost hypnotic, making John’s pulse and breathing ease into a languid rhythm. 

Sherlock’s fingertip drifted over John’s lifelines. His nail drew a light, tickling path to the edge of John’s hand, brushing the faint veins beneath the skin of his wrist. His eyes flickered back to John’s face again, John meeting them with his own. The moment went taut, stretched out and vibrating between them. Sherlock’s humming died in his throat, fading into the air as John pulled in a stuttering breath, surprised at the way Sherlock’s eyes darkened. 

A bird trilled, the sound a sudden shock as it drifted through the open kitchen window. Adrenaline shot through John’s body in response and, arms jerking, he pulled his hands back and out of Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock shook himself, blinking rapidly as John bit hard on his bottom lip, fighting the urge to curl his hands into fists. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. Closing his eyes, he breathed hard and slow, forcing back the disproportionate response to a mild startle. His heart raced, pulse thudding in his ears until it finally began to return to normal. 

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock was looking out the window, his expression impassive. Studying his face in profile, John felt a sudden wash of gratitude at the man’s seemingly tactful decision to give him space without physically removing himself. He released a sigh, and Sherlock turned back to him with an open face. 

“So,” he said, offering a small smile, “sandwiches?” 

John breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. “Sandwiches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Human](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-O5kflDCWN4) \- Civil Twilight  
> [Damaged Goods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DimLXJIWJRQ) \- Yeasayer  
> [Destroyer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFlNe7L6VoA) \- Phantogram


	2. Chapter 2

After finishing their sandwiches in companionable silence, John said his goodbye and headed out into the sunlight. Navigating Sherlock’s wild farm made him feel somewhat better about his own property, and he arrived home in a content mood, feeling lighter than he’d had any reason to in months. 

That night as he prepared for bed, John wondered if he might finally manage a proper night’s sleep. He was strangely buoyant, hands pleasantly numb from Sherlock’s treatment, his stomach full of cucumber and cheese sandwiches. Laying on his back, he sorted through the day, remembering how things had suddenly become charged, the air thick in the kitchen as Sherlock tended to his hands. John had not brought up the weird moment between them, and Sherlock hadn’t either, but the sense-memory of Sherlock’s fingers drifting over the skin of his wrist followed John down into sleep.

To his dismay, the nightmares were waiting for him.

* * *

When John woke from a restless night of tossing and turning to find a fresh new layer of skin on his hands, he thought he was still dreaming. Holding them toward the early-morning light filtering through the windows on either side of the bed, John stared at his palms in wonder, tracing a finger over the faint pink flush of healing on his skin. He shook his head, ground his knuckles against his sweat-damp forehead, and got up to shower. 

When he stepped out of the bathroom, naked save for the towel around his waist, there was a package on his kitchen table. John froze at the sight of it, his back and shoulder muscles tightening as his head whipped around, eyes darting over the empty room. 

He was alone. 

Taking in quick, uneven breaths, John approached the package with caution. There was a note on top, words scribbled in a slanted scrawl across the backside of a business card. 

_Couldn’t stay to chat, too busy. Sorry for breaking into your house - SH._

John stared at the message, reading it over and over. No matter how many times he mouthed the words, they didn’t change, making less sense the longer he looked at them. Flipping the card over, he read the neat block print on the front. 

**Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.** ****

Printed beneath, in all caps, was: _DON’T BE BORING._

It seemed like an odd thing to put on a business card but, knowing Sherlock even the little bit that John did, it felt strangely appropriate. 

There was an email listed and, scratched on with a pen, a phone number. John’s eyes narrowed. Carefully, he plugged the number into his phone and stuck the card to his fridge with a magnet shaped like an apple. Returning to the table, he picked up the package. It was soft, wrapped in brown paper, similar to what butchers used to wrap cuts of meat. Frowning, John worked a fingernail under a taped corner and wriggled it up, peeling the package open. 

Resting inside were two small jars, one with more honey and another with what John assumed was more of the cream Sherlock had rubbed into his hands. He peeked inside to confirm, pleased to see that he was right. Setting it aside, John held the honey in front of the window, admiring the pale gold hue of this batch. 

Beneath the jars was a pair of gloves. Made of supple, sturdy cowhide, they were light tan and shockingly soft to the touch. Holding them in his hands, John stared at the gift, his brow furrowed. He glanced at the fridge, considered phoning Sherlock and, recalling the ‘too busy’ part of his note, changed his mind. 

Careful of his raw hands, John slipped the gloves on slowly, wincing at the stretch of his healing skin. The fit was perfect as if made exactly with him in mind. Flexing his fingers, John frowned. 

It was time to talk to Greg.

* * *

His walk into town was peaceful. John followed an old gravel road past fields, clusters of trees, and a fenced parcel of land dotted with slow, grazing cows. He stopped to adjust his boots. Shaking a rock from one, John leaned on the fence and watched the animals crop away at the grass. When one meandered his way, lowing a mild greeting, he smiled.

“Hi, you.” He folded his arms on top of the fence boards. “Got any good gossip?” The cow flicked its ears toward him, swatted a fly with its tail, and wandered back to the rest of the herd. “Guess not,” he said, watching it go.

Wiggling his toes in his boots, John continued on, the small town coming into sight when he rounded a lazy bend in the road. It looked just as he remembered from his first trip, on his way out to the farm. He had stopped to pick up supplies and retrieve the key to the farm from the town hall. There, he had met Mike, a round, friendly man who worked part-time at the clinic and helped run the local general store on his off-days. 

John stopped to consult a message board in front of the general store as he passed, noting the requests from fellow townspeople for items, like some kind of barter system. Most of them were fairly ordinary, people asking for fresh bread or garden-grown vegetables. There were several from Sherlock, his _SH_ signature scrawled in the corner. His requests seemed centred around chemicals and information and, spotting one, John snorted at the plea for “some intelligent criminal activity, please and thank you”.

“Ah, John! You’ve found our message board, I see.”

The voice came from behind him, and John jumped, slamming a fist against his thigh as he whirled around. Greg lifted his hands in response, taking a step back.

“Sorry. Thought you might have heard my footsteps.” 

Pushing a strained smile through his bared teeth, John shook his head. “Nope, you snuck up on me.” 

Greg offered a contrite expression. “My bad. Sorry, mate.” 

“Yeah, it’s okay.” Clearing his throat, John huffed loudly through his nose. “Actually, I was looking for you.”

One of Greg’s eyebrows rose, curious. “Oh?” 

  
  
  


“Okay, wait.” Greg’s hands settled on top of his desk, fingers spread and palms flat. “You’re talking about _Sherlock_ , right?” 

Sitting back in the hard wooden chair in Greg’s small office at the police station, John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I am.” He held a glass of lemonade in one hand, offered by Greg’s sergeant, a woman named Sally. She had a cloud of black curly hair, and she squinted suspiciously at him before disappearing outside. The condensation on the glass was cold against John’s tender skin, and he took a slow drink, eyelids flickering with pleasure at the perfect balance of sugar and lemon. 

“You can’t be,” Greg insisted, drawing John’s attention back to him. “ _Sherlock Holmes_ , my brother-in-law. Not some other Sherlock Holmes?”

John cocked an eyebrow. _“Is_ there another one?”

“God, I hope not.” Sighing, Greg shrugged. “You sure you didn’t hit your head on the way here?” John glared at him, and Greg looked dubious. “I’m just saying, it’s possible. Maybe you got too much sun, playing lumberjack out on your farm.” 

“Bloody hell,” John laughed, shaking his head. “I’m serious. He gave me a present. Several, actually. Look.” Shifting his weight, he pulled the gloves out of his back pocket and set them on the table. 

Greg reached out to take them, rubbing his thumb over the soft material with a low whistle. “Christ, these are nice.” His eyes flicked up to John, thoughtful. “What were the other gifts?” 

John shrugged. “Some honey. Ointment.” Greg tilted his head in silent query, and John held up his hands. Greg winced in sympathy at the sight of the blisters. “I helped him build a fence to keep the deer out of his wildflowers.” 

“Ah, so _that’s_ who was stealing them,” Greg said before his eyes narrowed. “Hold on—you said you _helped_ him build a fence? Sherlock Holmes?”

Groaning, John snatched the gloves back and tucked them into his pocket. “I’m not doing this again. _Yes,_ Sherlock Holmes. _No,_ I don’t have a head injury.”

“And ain’t that the real shock,” Greg muttered, a bemused expression on his face. 

“What does that mean?”

“Look, John.” Greg leaned forward again, drumming his fingers on the desk between them. “People don’t just _help_ Sherlock Holmes with things. Hell, people don’t go _near_ Sherlock Holmes willingly, not unless they have to. And they certainly don’t receive gifts from him or share sandwiches with him.” 

Tension easing through his body, John narrowed his eyes. “Okay?” When Greg didn’t reply, he carefully set the half-full glass of lemonade down on the desk. “What are you saying, Greg?”

Greg shook his head, rolling his shoulders. “Nothing, John. I’m not saying anything. It’s just…” He spread his hands and shrugged. “Sherlock’s an outsider. Always has been. No matter where he goes, it’s the same. Part of it is his own fault, the man’s a menace most of the time. But it’s also partly because people don’t try to make friends with Sherlock Holmes. He rubs everyone the wrong way, and no one goes back for seconds.” Fixing John with a hard stare, Greg’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “So, I guess what I’m asking is, what made you go back for seconds?”

John’s nose wrinkled as he worked over Greg’s words. “I didn’t,” he said slowly. “Go back for seconds, I mean,” he clarified, catching Greg’s confused look. “He came and took care of the bees, we chatted a bit, he left.” John shrugged. “He showed up on my doorstep the next morning and asked for my help. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to kick him off my porch.” Pausing, he frowned at the top of the desk between them, going over the situation in his head before looking up again to meet Greg’s dubious expression. “Is that really so strange?”

“But it is a bit strange, isn’t it?” Greg tilted back in his chair, an odd shadow in his eyes. “That you _didn’t want to_ kick him off your porch, even though he woke you up at the crack of dawn.”

Still frowning, John nodded, thoughtful. After a moment, he admitted, “Maybe.”

His expression sympathetic, Greg offered a smile. “Sorry to say, mate, but I think you’ve got some thinking to do.” 

Reaching out to retrieve his glass, John snorted and took a drink. “Great. I’ll add it to the list.”

Greg laughed at that, and the tension dissipated with the sound. “Yeah, I’ll say,” he replied, shoulders relaxing as the subject turned in another direction. “How’s that bramble bush looking?”

John rolled his eyes, grateful for the easier topic. “Don’t even get me started. My back and shoulders are still screaming bloody murder.” 

To his relief, Greg laughed again, and John smiled into his lemonade.

* * *

Greg’s words followed him home, plaguing the otherwise peaceful walk through the countryside. John walked quickly, falling into the automatic comfort of a march, his arms swinging stiff at his sides as his boots beat a rhythmic pattern against the ground. 

Watching thick white clouds drift by overhead, John’s thoughts returned to that morning. To discovering Sherlock’s burglary gift on his kitchen table. The gloves now in his back pocket, and the sense memory brought on by the sight of the cream. His initial response had been to consider calling his neighbour, though whether or not it would have been to thank him or chastise him for breaking into John’s house, he still wasn’t sure. 

Encouraged by his thoughts, John paused and wandered off the path, planting his back against the wide trunk of a tall, gnarled tree. Fishing his mobile out of a pocket, he tapped at the screen and scrolled through the contacts, his finger hovering over Sherlock’s entry. Pulse loud in his ears, John swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth and hit _call_. The line rang out for what felt like an eternity before clicking over to an inbox.

_“Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. For my own sanity, do NOT be boring.”_

The message was delivered in an exasperated, sharp tone, and John bit back a laugh as the recording faded into a mechanical beep. 

“Um,” he began and bit his tongue at the sheer amount of prepubescent nerves in his chest. “Okay, I should have probably thought this through before calling, but, uh, thanks for the gift and maybe don’t break into my house? Unless, uh. I don’t mean that in, you know, a rude way…?” John frowned, stuffing his fist hard against his hip in disbelief. Was he actually almost apologizing for scolding a man for _breaking into his house?_ Maybe he needed a psych eval. Clearing his throat, he gnawed hard on his bottom lip. “Yup, no, that’s all, definitely hanging up now. Okay.” He paused. “Bye.” 

Ending the call, John closed his eyes with a groan. “Watson, you utter moron.” 

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and soldiered on. His ears burned with mortification, the colour in his face taking ages to fade, leaving him grateful for the easy walk.

When his house came into view, John passing through an old gate that creaked bloody murder on rusty hinges, he spotted a figure seated on his porch. As he moved closer, the visitor rose to his feet, a tall man with an imposing stature wrapped in an expensive three-piece suit. Already looking out of place with his high-end attire, the man was holding, of all things, an umbrella. He tapped the metal tip idly against the weathered floorboards of John’s porch as John approached.

“Doctor Watson,” the man greeted, moving slowly down the rickety stairs to meet him on the cobblestone path. “So good to finally put a name to the face.” He held out a hand, and John took it, feeling dazed.

“Right. Sure.” John shook his hand and released it, head tilting. “And who are you, exactly?” The man offered a sharp, polite smile, and John returned it uneasily, sensing nothing friendly beneath the veneer. Was this how people did things around here? Just showed up on your doorstep and introduced themselves? If so, John wasn’t sure he was going to fit in.

The man released John’s hand and folded his palms together in front of him. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.” His smile widened. “I believe you’ve already met my husband, Gregory.” Flicking over John’s face, his eyes glittered. “And my brother,” he paused, exhaled and added, “Sherlock.”

“I have,” John replied slowly, cautious as he shifted his weight to his right side. Mycroft tracked the movement, a slight change in his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“You were a soldier, isn’t that right?” 

John stiffened, and he didn’t answer. Mycroft didn’t seem to require his response, carrying on as if they were discussing the weather, his tone just as casual. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” 

“What is?” John asked, mimicking the bland tone. 

Mycroft’s smile went flat. “A man of war, moving to the countryside.” His eyebrows rose in mock curiousity. “Seems like a suspicious change after surviving the battlefield, doesn’t it?”

John’s left hand, trembling and twitching, went perfectly still. Mycroft’s gaze fixed on the steady fingers before darting back to John’s face.

“I don’t know,” John replied, biting the words out through his teeth. He didn’t like this man, standing here on his property, prying into him with piercing eyes. John could see Sherlock in those eyes, and the similarity was unnerving in an unfamiliar face. “Does it?” 

The smile returned, predatory and sharp. Mycroft swung the umbrella by its curved handle, his eyes slowly narrowing. “I’m sure I don’t know.” He affected a politely intrigued expression. “You tell me, Doctor Watson.”

John’s jaw clenched, hard enough that a muscle popped near his ear. “I’d really rather not.” 

“Why?”

Chin jutting out, John scowled. “Because it’s none of your business.” 

Watching his umbrella swing, Mycroft glanced his way from the corner of his eyes. He looked amused, and John tensed, holding back his anger. 

“It could be,” Mycroft said, tone still perfectly conversational. 

Something in John snapped. When he spoke, it took a moment for his words to steady enough to make it out of his tight jaw, his head tilting to the side with a warning twitch. “It _really_ couldn’t.” 

Mycroft stared at him before a wide grin curved his lips. “You certainly wear a very convincing mask, don’t you? A doctor aching for retirement, seeking solace in the quiet of the country after the chaos of war.” He tipped the umbrella toward himself, looking at John over the silver tip. “However, it shields you less than you seem to believe.” Eyebrows rising, Mycroft’s voice turned contemplative. “I wonder what we can surmise from that, hmm? About what lies beneath the mask of a soldier?”

“I don’t care,” John snipped, heat washing over him. His skin felt hot and tight, limbs dangerously still, caught in the calm before the storm brewing within him. 

“Interesting.” Mycroft swung his umbrella once more, tossing a patronizing smile toward John. “You’re a very intriguing man, aren’t you?” His eyebrows rose. “ _Captain_ Watson.”

John sucked in a breath, closing his eyes for a second against the flood of memories the title prompted in his head. “I’m really not,” he breathed. 

“Don’t lie, John,” Mycroft said sharply. “Let’s not have lies here, not between us.” He tapped the toe of an expensive leather shoe against the uneven ground. “I could be of some use to you, I think.” 

John’s eyes narrowed. “How so?"

Mycroft’s lips quirked. “A man such as yourself, an ex-soldier, a war invalid…” He said the words with just the hint of a sneer, and John scowled. “You must have certain... _limitations.”_ His eyes flickered over John’s face. “Financially, perhaps?” 

Closing his eyes again, John pulled in a loud breath. “Excuse me?” he asked, forcefully polite when all he wanted was to put a fist through the other man’s smug face.

Unperturbed, the borderline smile still in place, Mycroft sighed. “I mean money, Doctor Watson. Payment for certain services I believe you could offer.” 

John’s eyes flashed open. “What?” he demanded, stunned. Mycroft’s head tilted to the side.

“I find myself seeking information,” he said smoothly. “Mainly, about the doings of my brother, Sherlock.” His smile was an oily facade of camaraderie. “Perhaps, Doctor Watson, you are just such a man for that role.”

“You…” John shook his head. “Are you asking me to _spy on your brother_ for you?”

“Indeed, I am,” Mycroft said, smiling as if pleased that John had caught on so quickly. “The compensation would be considerable.” He flashed an evaluating look at John. “What do you think?”

John’s jaw tensed, his teeth coming together with a click that made his words emerge strangled. “I think you should go fuck yourself.” 

Mycroft’s expression darkened. “You’re very loyal, _very_ fast.”

Pasting a deadly smile on his face, John repeated his earlier words, “I’m _really_ not.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply before closing it abruptly, his eyes fixing over John’s shoulder. Confused, John glanced behind himself to watch Sherlock step out from a row of wildly tangled fruit trees on the northside of John’s property. 

“That’s quite enough, Mycroft,” Sherlock called out as he moved toward them. His long legs ate up the distance until he was standing next to John, his sharp, pale eyes fixed on his brother. 

“Ah, Sherlock. I was just about to come by,” Mycroft replied, completely at ease. Sherlock’s lips twisted into a grim expression, body thrumming with energy at John’s side. 

“I’m sure,” he retorted, eyes darting briefly to John before darkening as they resettled on this brother. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft smiled. “Just introducing myself to our newest neighbour.” He turned the false expression on John, who tensed in response. Noticing the reaction, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as Mycroft crooned, “We were having such a pleasant little conversation, weren’t we, _John?”_

“Oh, yes,” John said, his own smile tight and hard. “Just _lovely.”_ The anger was evident in his tone, humming beneath the words. Sherlock’s upper lip curled back, and Mycroft’s smile faded, his eyes calculating as he looked between them. Disliking the way he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, John snapped, “You can leave now.”

“Ah, I see Sherlock’s _wonderful_ manners are rubbing off on you already,” Mycroft commented. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, his face thunderous, but John beat him to it, biting out his response.

“Yep. Thankfully, he got to me before you did, God forbid.” Sneering through clenched teeth, he added, “I wouldn’t want to let such a manipulative blowhard shape my first impression of the Holmes brothers.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and he looked momentarily stunned before the polite facade slid back into place. Beside John, Sherlock made a noise like he had just choked on his tongue, shooting John a look of shock. 

“Yes, well.” Straightening his rigid spine, Mycroft brushed a leaf off his shoulder with a grimace. “ _So_ wonderful to meet you, Doctor Watson.” 

“Can’t say the same,” John muttered. Mycroft turned a strained smile his way before looking at his brother. 

“Shall we still expect you for dinner this evening, Sherlock?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock drawled, looking at the passing clouds before tilting his gaze to Mycroft. “Will you eat it all before I’ve even arrived?”

Mycroft’s face darkened. Looking like he would like to run Sherlock through with the sharp point of his umbrella, and likely John as well, he turned on his heel and strode off down the path leading away from John’s house. 

As John watched him go, he released a massive exhale, the tension seeping out of his unclenched jaw and through his body. Almost instantly, his left hand began to shake, the near-constant tremour once more taking up residence in his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes darted to the twitching digits. John coughed before he could comment and fixed an uncomfortable smile on his face.

“Your brother is a real twat,” he said weakly, trying for levity when all he wanted to do was put his head between his knees and hyperventilate.

Sherlock studied his face for a moment, eyes darting between John’s, his brow slightly creased. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah.” He tried for a tentative smile. “He really is.”

Clearing his throat, John rocked back on his heels and forced himself to relax. As if sensing his attempt, the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders eased. John’s smile slipped into something more genuine. “So, what’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “I got your voicemail.” 

John groaned at the reminder of his frankly ridiculous phone message. “Oh.” He cleared his throat and tried not to look as mortified as he felt. “Did you?”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, twitching upward sardonically. “I did indeed.” Pausing to study John’s face, he sucked in a breath and launched into a rush of words that made John’s eyes widen. “I’m glad you liked the gloves, and I would apologize for breaking into your house, except that I was really very busy today and didn’t have time to wait around for you to get out of the shower, so it really was the only option. Also, the lock was _deplorably_ easy to pick, you should look into that.” As if realizing he was babbling, Sherlock shut his mouth quickly, ending the sentence with a click of teeth. Somewhat dazed, John tried not to react to Sherlock knowing he had been in the shower. He wasn’t sure why, but the idea left him feeling strangely flustered. 

“Um, so…” John hesitated, grimacing. “Does that mean you’re not sorry you did it, or that you won’t do it again?”

Sherlock’s answering grin was far too smug. “Oh, I’m definitely not sorry...”

“And you’re going to do it again,” John muttered, finishing the sentence as he shook his head with a sigh. “I’m starting to see what Greg was talking about. Maybe I _do_ have a head injury.”

Sherlock frowned. “What?” His confusion deepened as concern coloured his tone. “Did you hit your head?”

“Nevermind,” John said, waving the conversation aside with a forced smile. “Don’t worry about it.” At Sherlock’s uncertain expression, he added, “It’s fine. Just…no, it’s fine.” His smile slipped closer to something more relaxed. “So, you got my message and decided to come by? Any particular reason?”

Eyes still searching his, Sherlock nodded. “Actually, yes.” He took a moment to study John’s face before shaking his head slightly as if clearing away the confusion. “I was hoping you might be up for helping me with another problem.”

Rocking on his heels, John nodded. “Count me in.”

* * *

“Okay, are you going to explain what we’re doing here?” 

“All in due time, John,” Sherlock replied, his lips quirking upward at the corners with faint amusement. Huffing, John shot him a look but kept his mouth shut, looking up at the house rising before them. 

It was an impressive structure, a two-storey rancher painted stormy grey, with dark stonework, and immense wooden beams supporting the shingle overhang. Set back at the end of a pale-yellow cobble path that reminded John strongly (to his bemusement) of the yellow brick road from _The Wizard of Oz,_ the property was massive, at least triple the size of his own. White paddock fences stretched along the path, pacing them as they approached. Looking into the distance, John could see livestock dotting the fields, and the faint sound of a crowing rooster reached his ears. 

Closer to the house, he could see that the patio was a large, wrap-around veranda. It disappeared around the side of the house, decked out in immaculate and fragrant hanging baskets bursting with colourful flowers. John tried to imagine who might live in such a grand home, feeling decidedly out of place in his jumper and faded jeans. As they mounted the stairs, he steeled himself, watching Sherlock press a finger to the doorbell. A high, melodic sound echoed through the interior of the house, and John frowned.

“Is that…?” he began, trailing off as he cocked his head. 

Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes. “Yes. Debussy’s _Clair De Lune_ ,” he sighed, “Irene has always had a penchant for over-the-top showmanship.”

Before John could ask who Irene was, there was the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. It opened to reveal a petite woman. She was small and energetic, her eyebrows shooting up with surprise that morphed quickly into pleasure at the sight of them.

“Sherlock!” Her voice somewhat tremulous, she pushed long brown hair back from her face with a slight shake in her hand. “What are you doing here?” A pale pink flush infused her freckled skin. “Um, not that it’s not good to see you! I just—”

“Hello, Molly,” Sherlock interrupted smoothly, cutting off her nervous rambling. “Is Irene in? She asked me to come by.” 

“Oh! Oh, yes, she is. Just a second.” Wiping her hands on her jean-clad thighs, Molly cast a quick, curious glance at John before waving them both inside. Turning down a hallway, she called out, “Irene! Sherlock’s here!” and disappeared through a door at the other end of the entryway.

In the following silence, John glanced around the room. Taking in the hanging chandelier overhead and the gold-inlaid vase of white roses set atop a dark, wood table against the wall, he felt even more out of place than before. Sherlock was a better fit, even in his pale grey chambray shirt, tucked loosely into dark trousers. How he always managed to look so effortless in the most random of clothing, John had no idea.

Just as he was beginning to fidget, trying and failing to ignore Sherlock’s side-long glances of amusement, Molly reappeared, poking her head out of a door at the end of the hall. “She’s on the back porch if you want to come through.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock replied, walking briskly toward her. Pausing to cast a wary glance at his dusty boots, John followed. 

The door at the end of the hall opened into a large sitting room, adorned with pristine leather couches in a sheer white, offset by a sky-blue area rug that dominated most of the floor. A huge TV was mounted on one wall with the channel turned to a muted horse race. John’s eyes nearly popped out at the sight of it, but they moved on, passing through another door into a sunroom. The interior was nearly blinding, the sun slanting in through the wall-to-ceiling windows. Just beyond was the patio, a continuation of the wrap-around veranda.

Molly led them through the sunroom, smiling as Sherlock stopped to admire the plants set along the wall of glass. They continued onward, moving outside through a side door. John followed at a slow distance from Sherlock, blinking as they emerged onto the patio.

His eyes took several seconds to adjust. When they did, John saw that the view was stunning. Rich green fields stretched out from the back of the house, the large paddocks John had observed on the way up to the property continuing onward. The land rolled without end, stretching into the distance. A large stable dominated part of the view, bright red and well-maintained, bordered by the same white fencing. Clucking hens strutted around the yard, a posturing rooster marching through the flock to crow loudly when it spotted the newcomers. 

“Sherlock!” 

A new voice pulled John’s attention away from the fields, and he turned at the same time as Sherlock. 

Tall and slender, her high cheekbones and ornately-styled hair matching the pristine elegance of the house’s interior, the woman who climbed the stairs to greet them was the definition of refinement. She positively oozed grandeur and charm. Even dressed in a dark red blouse and tight jeans, she moved with the grace of a noblewoman, her vibrant blue-green eyes raking over them as she drew nearer. 

“So glad you came by,” she cooed, cupping Sherlock’s shoulders and pressing an air-kiss to each of his cheeks. Sherlock accepted the greeting with a stony face, his eyes narrowing until she leaned away. Releasing him, she stepped back and turned her attention to John. “I see you’ve brought a friend.” Her eyes glittered, sweeping over him from head to toe and back, a slight smile curling her cherry red lips. “Irene Adler,” she said, offering a hand, her delicate fingers bent toward the ground. 

“Um.” John cleared his throat and awkwardly took her hand, brushing the briefest contact of lips over the back before releasing and tucking his hands into his pockets. Irene’s eyes lit up again, and she shot Sherlock a mischievous look. 

“Oh, isn’t he _adorable,”_ she breathed, looking positively smug at the disgruntled expression on Sherlock’s face. “What’s your name, darling?” she asked, looking back to John. 

Before he could open his mouth to respond, Sherlock cut in, snapping, “It’s _Doctor Watson_ , not ‘darling.’” 

One of Irene’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose as her smile widened. “A doctor.” Her eyes flickered over John, who blinked. As Sherlock and Irene conducted a silent conversation with hard and playful stares respectively, one of Irene’s hands drifted up John’s bare arm, circling his bicep with a teasing wink. “I think,” she said slowly, lower lip pouting out with a curious glint in her gaze, “that you’ve served in the military.” Her eyelashes lowered, and she drifted a little closer. “Am I right, Doctor Watson? What was it, pencil-pusher or serviceman?”

John stiffened. Next to him, Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh. 

“Uh, yeah,” John replied. He was uncomfortable, trying to hide it by swallowing hard. “John Watson, former army-doctor with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Out of habit, he stiffened a bit upon recitation. Irene’s grin widened and John cracked a slow, bewildered smile, taking in the nervous hovering of Molly as she suddenly appeared over Irene’s shoulder. The glare Sherlock shot Irene’s way was deadly, but the woman ignored it in favour of hanging on every word of John’s muttered, “But, uh, call me John.” 

“A _soldier!”_ Irene’s teeth sank against her bottom lip, her eyes squinting. “How lovely, _John_. So very nice to meet you.” Her hand drifted higher, tracing over the curve of his shoulder, her long, manicured nails tickling the skin beneath his ear. “I _like_ soldiers. And…” leaning closer, breath warm against his cheek, she murmured, “I know what _they_ like.” John stared at his boots, feeling his cheeks flame, mortified and more than a little flustered. At his side, Sherlock looked like a man turned to stone. Trying not to react to Irene’s aggressive come-on, John forced a pained smile.

 _Get it together, Watson,_ he snapped internally, scowling. _You were a soldier, dammit! You’ve been shot at, been_ shot _—you can handle a flirting woman. Bloody hell, you’re divorced, not_ dead.

Still, he couldn’t quite tell if she was making fun of him, or if this was all at Sherlock’s expense. Glancing at Sherlock, taking in his stiff posture, John thought he might not be the only one uncomfortable with Irene’s overly-friendly greeting. 

“I thought you were _retired,_ Irene” Sherlock snapped harshly, stepping closer to John’s side. John shot him a confused look, but the detective didn’t elaborate. Instead, he clapped his hands, the movement brisk and businesslike, startling the others. “I didn’t come to socialize, I came because you said there was a case. So, get to it.” His face hardened. “Why am I here?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Irene tilted her face toward the sky with a sigh. “Always such a charmer.” Shooting John an apologetic smile, she stroked her fingers down his arm once more, murmuring, “Another time, perhaps, John,” before turning to Sherlock again. 

Still utterly lost, wondering what kind of work entailed ‘knowing what soldiers like’, John followed slowly as Irene waved them both down the stairs. Molly, silent and serene, drifted along at Irene’s side. As they walked, Irene settled a hand on the small of the other woman’s back, stroking the material of Molly’s shirt with idle fingers. The movement was decidedly intimate, and John frowned, even more confused about what had just occurred on the patio. He shook himself out of his thoughts as Irene spoke again.

“As I mentioned over the phone,” she began, brows drawing together, “I’ve had a rather disgusting problem recently.” With the wind teasing at the edges of her coiled hair, Irene gingerly picked her way through the roaming chickens, brushing one or two aside with a gentle nudge of her calf-high boots as she led them toward a tidy little coop. 

“‘Disgusting?’” Sherlock repeated the word slowly, drawing it out as if the taste of it was imprinted on his tongue. “What do you mean?”

Irene’s upper lip curled. “I’ll show you.” Shooing the territorial rooster away as it stalked toward them, she knelt beside the coop and pointed to the grass next to a wooden ramp connecting the ground to the entrance. Dark against the vivid greenery, smeared over blades flattened by the imprint of a boot, was something thick and red. 

Watching Sherlock duck down at Irene’s side for a closer look, John stiffened, already recognizing the substance for what it was before Sherlock said, “It’s blood.” 

As if triggered by the detective’s words, a metallic scent filled John’s head. He narrowed his eyes, clenching his hands against a sudden wave of dizziness. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, he resisted the urge to sway on his feet and looked away from the sight. His gaze landed on Molly, who blinked in response. She cocked her head, raising her brows, and John shook his head, struggling to regain control over his reactions. With a strained breath, John forced his focus back to Sherlock and Irene, staring at Sherlock’s back as his pulse thudded in his ears. Irene was speaking again, John catching the end of her words as his attention faded back into the present. 

“...really can’t afford to lose more of them.” She sounded frustrated. Her face was tense as she straightened, Sherlock rising beside her. 

“Of course.” His brow furrowed, Sherlock’s eyes lit up with a strange intensity John had only seen briefly before when Sherlock had approached the swarm of bees. Something about it made John’s breath catch, and he wondered at the sudden excitement he could feel emanating from the other man.

Before he could ponder further, Sherlock whirled and darted around the side of the house. Caught off guard, John blinked at Irene and Molly, wondering if he was meant to stay or follow until Sherlock called out, “John!” He grimaced, still uncertain, but turned and jogged toward the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

Rounding the side of the house, he stumbled to a stop to avoid tripping over Sherlock where he was hunkered on the ground. With a brief wave of his arms to find his balance, John frowned down at him. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for clues.” Sherlock was clearly distracted. He was inches away from the fence, staring at the wood. His face lit up as his breath caught, loud in the stillness. “John, look,” he said, nodding for John to lower himself. 

Kneeling beside him, John frowned and peered at the spot beneath Sherlock’s pointing finger. “What am I looking at?” He squinted, failing to find what he was meant to notice. “I don’t see anything.” 

Sherlock made a low, irritated noise deep in his throat. “Look _closer_ , John.” 

With a bitten-back sigh and the sudden realization that the man beside him was still very much a stranger, John bent forward until he was as close as Sherlock. His nose nearly brushed the fence, Sherlock’s breathing loud and hot against his neck as John tried to ignore his intense presence. 

“I don’t…” he began, then closed his mouth with a click as he saw it, partial and easy to miss. A red fingerprint, smeared against the inside of the fence post. “Oh,” he said. “You saw that right away? Brilliant.” Turning to look at Sherlock, John almost forgot their close proximity, and Sherlock’s next exhale brushed over his lips as John finished his exclamation. Their eyes met with sudden electricity sparking in the bare inches of space between them. John pulled in a shaky breath, and Sherlock’s lashes fluttered. His eyes dropped to John’s mouth. 

“What’s going on here?” 

John jerked up and back, nearly losing his balance. Catching himself, he turned toward the house to see a slim, red-haired woman leaning over the veranda with a puzzled expression. 

Beside John, still close but not quite as near as before, Sherlock went stiff, his head twisting around so fast that John heard the muscles creak in his neck. “Kate?”

Catching sight of Sherlock’s face, the woman tilted her head. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s you.” She smiled, her bright green eyes warming with recognition. “I didn’t recognize you, ducked down there on the ground.” Her gaze shifted to John. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is John Watson,” answered Irene, walking up behind them with Molly at her side. She glanced at John with a wicked smile before leaning toward Kate to say, in a loud stage-whisper, “He was a _soldier.”_

Kate’s eyebrows rose, and she narrowed her eyes at the other woman. “I know _that_ look.” She rolled her eyes at John, who felt lost once more. Sherlock turned to a statue next to him as Kate added, “Don’t let her get to you, she loves being a tease.”

“It’s only a tease if I don’t mean it,” Irene retorted, her full lips pushing out into a pout. Molly giggled at her side, and Irene slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against her side. Looking down at John, still kneeling next to Sherlock, she smirked. “Don’t worry, Doctor Watson, I promise I’m not pulling your leg. Although,” her eyes lingered on his broad shoulders and the fit of his jeans. “I’d not be against pulling something else.” She winked and John nearly swallowed his tongue. Sherlock coughed loudly at his side before launching to his feet with a graceful shove of his long legs. 

“If anyone is actually interested in _the case,”_ he spat, shoving his hands deep into his pockets with a petulant expression, “I found something.” 

Amused, Irene bent down to look at the fence, one brow quirked. “What did you find?”

“Fingerprint,” Sherlock snapped, shuffling his feet against the grass. His lips pursed before he sighed, “Whoever is killing your chickens came through here.” He gestured at the fence, his face pensive. “And likely will do so again.”

“And that means…?” Irene dropped her hands on his hips, tossing a look at John, who shrugged.

Sherlock’s eyes glittered. His face was flushed with excitement despite his harsh tone as he replied, “Stakeout.”

  
  
  


With his back against a plush cushion, mug of tea in hand, John wondered how, exactly, he had been roped into Sherlock’s scheme. 

After announcing the need to watch the site for the chicken-killer’s return, Sherlock had turned into a whirlwind of energy, mapping out the best potential angles to await the murderer until Irene shooed them into the sitting room with tea and biscuits, begging off to attend to other matters. Initially, Molly and Kate had lingered, exchanging small talk with John until Sherlock’s restless mood drove them off as well. 

Now, seated on a couch set in the middle of the room, John gnawed at his lip and tried to decide between watching muted horse racing on the television and observing Sherlock’s endless jittering. Having so much open area at his back made him feel uneasy. Sherlock’s loud muttering filled the space between the back of the couch and the far wall, and John fought the urge to fidget.

“Hey,” he said, searching for a distraction from his thoughts. “What was Irene talking about, earlier?”

Sherlock continued his pacing, glancing at John with narrowed eyes. “What?”

Turning sideways, John watched his restless movements. “About liking soldiers, and…” he paused, frowning. “You know, ‘knowing what they like.’”

Sherlock paused, shooting John a strange look. “Why do you want to know?” he asked slowly, his tone oddly strained. 

John shrugged. “Because it’s bloody confusing, and I have no idea what’s going on.” 

The tension in Sherlock’s face eased. “Oh. That.” He wiggled his fingers. “She was a dominatrix.” His pacing resumed, and John’s eyes widened. 

“A...what?” 

Sherlock’s brows rose. “You know, a dominatrix?” At John’s bewildered look, he sighed. “Someone who offers ‘recreational scolding.’” When John only continued to stare, he paused. “BDSM, John. Spanking? Whips and chains? Bondage?” Despite his flat tone, Sherlock’s face reddened. John was fairly certain it matched his own.

“Oh,” he said, blinking hard. “Right. Of course.” He looked off to the side and frowned before looking back. “So, she doesn’t do that...now?”

Sherlock sighed again. “Sorry to disappoint you, John, but no, she doesn’t. Irene raises livestock. Breeds show animals, racehorses, that sort of thing.” He resumed his pacing, no longer meeting John’s eyes.

John squinted. “What do you mean, ‘disappoint me?’” he asked, picking out the strange comment. Sherlock glanced at him and away, his movements twitchy.

“That’s why you asked, isn’t it?” His tone was brusque, sharp, turning on his heel as he paced toward the far wall. “Because you’re interested.”

“What?” John frowned again, wondering where this was coming from. “Why do you think that?”

Sherlock halted again. He looked at John in surprise, his nose crinkling. “You mean...you’re not?”

Amused, and more than a little bewildered, John slowly shook his head. “Uh, no.” He licked his lips, studying Sherlock’s face. “In case you didn’t notice, I wasn’t the one doing the flirting out there.” He gestured in the general direction of the patio with a pained smile. “It was, quite frankly, intimidating.”

Sherlock halted, his expression smoothing out. “Oh.” He paused. “Right.” He stared at John for a moment, long enough that John had to struggle with the urge to squirm before Sherlock finally looked away and resumed his pacing. Watching him, John frowned. He turned back to his tea, sipped, swallowed, and glanced at the television screen. Someone had won the race, and the jockey was being festooned with flowers and champagne. 

The room was too quiet, and John turned his attention back to Sherlock, hoping to erase his lingering discomfort with a new distraction. “You’re not having some kind of...fit, are you?” Sherlock turned to him in surprise, blinking until his eyes focused on John as if emerging from a daze. 

“What? No, no, I’m fine.” He waved a hand, dismissive. “Just...I don’t like waiting.” He paced along the wall, fingers tapping complex patterns against his thigh. 

John sighed. Dropping his arms on the back of the sofa, he set his chin on top. “Not sure anyone does,” he pointed out, earning a frustrated sound from Sherlock before the detective meandered toward him. To John’s surprise, he knelt at the back of the couch, bringing their faces level. 

“When you were a soldier, how did you do it?”

Instinctively, John jerked back before he caught himself and carefully dropped his chin back on his folded arms. “When I was...how did I do what?” he asked. Sherlock, barely a foot away, searched John’s eyes, his expression curious.

“I imagine you must have spent lots of time waiting. For action, for casualties, for nightfall or daybreak.” Sherlock’s breathing quickened, and he leaned closer, vibrating with a strange energy. “How did you stay sane, with all that waiting?” 

Frozen in place by the hypnotic shift of Sherlock’s eyes focusing and refocusing as they roved over his face, John blinked. “Um…” he paused, brow furrowing thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Most of the time, I was with others. If we had to be quiet, we just…” he shrugged, tilting his head as his vision went blurry with memories. “You know, stared at the horizon, wondered if we’d survive the next few hours. Thought about people back home, daydreamed, whatever.” 

“And?” Sherlock prompted, his voice soft. “When you didn’t have to be quiet?” He was close enough that John could smell a faint hint of soap on his skin, something light and fresh. _Lemon zest,_ he realized, feeling suddenly dizzy. John closed his eyes, inhaling through his mouth to clear his head. 

“We’d play games,” he murmured, images flickering on the backs of his eyelids. “Have You Ever, Truth or Dare, silly things.” His lips twitched, curving up on one side in a slow smile. Sherlock’s breathing caught, a faint sound John missed as he lost himself to the memory of sun and sand and the smell of sweat. “Mostly, we just...talked.” He breathed deeply again, this time through his nose, taking in more of Sherlock’s scent, pinpointing something tart and sweet. 

_Pomegranate._

John’s eyes flickered beneath lowered lids. He remembered how it felt to squat in a field of pomegranate trees in Kandahar, his legs burning from holding the position for hours. The faint drone of bees underlined the memory, melding with the brush of hot wind on his face, hard bark against his skin when he’d laid his cheek against the trunk of a tree. The fruit had been ripe, breaking apart easily as John dug his fingers into the flesh and tore it open, chewing handfuls of seeds, the taste a dry kind of sweet that washed over his teeth and tongue in little bursts with every clench of his jaw

“What did you talk about?” Sherlock asked softly. He sounded closer, his exhale warm on John’s cheek. The sensation mingled with the memory, and John felt himself drifting, finding himself untethered. He could smell the grass, the hot desert air, hear the faint murmur of his platoon mates as they talked amongst themselves behind him.

“We talked about…” John frowned. He reached out, grasping, his knuckles flexing as his hand lifted and drifted outward without conscious thought. In front of him, he saw a man he knew wasn’t really there, facing away from him. John extended his hand to touch the man’s shoulder and barely felt it as, instead, Sherlock’s fingers slid between his. The contact was slow and tenuous as John slipped deeper into the memory, their joined hands John’s only anchor to the real world. Another slight smile curved John’s lips as he felt hot air blasting sand into his face with each gust. The grit scoured his skin, scraping the few slivers of flesh not covered by his helmet and mask. “We talked about what we would do when we went home. It was, sort of...like a game.” John’s speech turned halting. “Sometimes it was...you know, kind of a joke. ‘When I get home, I’m going to drink a whole case of beer, or, eat sushi until I burst.’ Things like that.” His voice trailed off, and he sank deeper still. 

Sherlock’s gentle prompting drew him back. “What did you want to do, John?” His fingers tightened, pulling John a little closer to reality, grounding him. “When you came home, what did you want?”

John breathed in, a shaky, shallow inhale that wiped the taste of pomegranate from his mouth. A thought rose over the brief, silent bliss in his head.

_I wanted to come home to my wife, but she was sleeping with someone else by then._

The thought tore through the memory, shredding it into tattered remnants. John’s eyes flashed open with a gasp, and Sherlock blinked, leaning back at the suddenness and intensity of John’s reaction.

“John?” He peered into John’s wide eyes, sounding concerned. 

Forcing a loud breath through his teeth, gradually realizing Sherlock’s fingers were interlocked tightly with his, John cleared his throat. The memory was still fading, and he blinked a few times, reorienting himself in the present.

“Ah, sorry, I don’t remember,” he said, forcing a strained smile. It was so long ago now, you know?” Shrugging, falsely chagrined, John gently slid his hand out of Sherlock’s grip, leaning back until their faces were further apart. “It was a long time ago,” he repeated, the smile still feeling awkward and wrong on his face.

Sherlock frowned, his eyes examining John’s face. It was unnerving, and John turned away to reach for his tea, set aside on a glass-topped coffee table. After a moment, Sherlock rose to his feet and resumed his pacing. John tried to ignore the frequent glances Sherlock shot his way each time he reached a wall. 

To John’s relief, Irene swept into the sitting room before Sherlock’s staring drove John around the bend, announcing, “It’s nearly sunset.” Her words drew Sherlock to a sudden stop. Looking up, John caught Sherlock’s grin.

“Finally,” he said, bringing his hands together. “Come, John. It’s time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Never Let Me Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKQJPO3YC_U) \- Florence and the Machine  
> [Can't Keep Your Mind Off](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EERi6i_QHw) \- Data Romance  
> [sinew](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BAjsdS-BWr0) \- Purity Ring


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for brief, mild dissociation/depersonalization, a discussion of mental illness, and mention of suicidal ideation.

Looking at the shadows cast over Sherlock’s face as the sun began to fade from the sky, John found himself comforted in a way he had not experienced since leaving Afghanistan. Even though his resurfacing had been awkward, creating space between him and Sherlock, it had still felt almost pleasant. Usually, his flashbacks left him gasping, untethered and reeling. This time, John had emerged peacefully, the memory nothing like his typical recollections of waking in pain and screaming, remembering sand, blood, and the tang of metal in the air. 

Filled with a strange serenity, John watched the sunset and Sherlock, marvelling at the presence of both. As if sensing John’s eyes on him, Sherlock turned with a slight frown, his brows rising in silent query. Glancing away, John shuffled his feet, redistributing his weight evenly into parade rest. 

“What are we waiting for, exactly?” he asked, tilting his head toward the dimming horizon. As the light blurred with the rush of the oncoming dusk, his other senses sharpened. Sherlock’s soft sigh seemed suddenly loud before the high trill of a bird cut through the warm air. 

“For our murderer.” Hands on the railing, the two of them standing in the darkening shadows draped over the veranda, Sherlock stared out into nightfall with keen eyes. “If I’m right, he’ll return tonight.”

“‘Murderer?’” John repeated, catching Sherlock’s sharp look. “The only victims have been chickens.” 

Sherlock’s fingers flexed against the painted wood. “Chicken murderer, then,” he allowed, flashing a surprised grin at John’s soft, amused snort. 

“So, what are we going to do with him, our chicken murderer?”

His grin fading into a mild smile, Sherlock cocked his head. “Catch him, obviously.” 

“Right. Obviously.” Moving to lean against the side of the house, John folded his arms over his chest. The night was comfortably warm, sweat threatening to rise on his brow, and he felt thankful for his t-shirt. Lips twitching with humour, John watched Sherlock stand on the bottom rung of the fence, swinging forward to peer into the dark. “What do we do with him after we catch him?” John paused, adding, “Assuming it is a he.” 

“Statistically likely, John,” Sherlock quipped, glancing over his shoulder. “And, to answer your question, we arrest him.” 

John’s brows rose. “You can do that?” 

Sherlock hesitated. The silence stretched out until he replied with a questionable, “Yes?” 

“Very convincing,” John said, and Sherlock shrugged. 

“I’ve never been asked that before.”

Pushing off the siding, John closed the short distance between them. He leaned against the railing at Sherlock’s side, looking at the detective. “What, none of your other crime sleuth buddies ever asked for your credentials?” He glanced away, watching the sunset brush fire along the horizon.

Still staring straight ahead into the field, Sherlock’s lips tightened. “There isn’t anyone else.” 

John blinked, shooting a look at him. “You just, what,” his brow furrowed, head tilting, “solve cases on your own?” 

“And keep bees.” Sherlock offered a faint, uneasy smile, turning to meet John’s gaze. 

“And keep bees,” John repeated. He watched something faint and uncertain pass over Sherlock’s face. The detective was quiet for a long moment, and John tapped his fingers against the railing, waiting him out.

“Being alone is…” Sherlock paused, brow furrowing, “a more attractive option compared to the alternative.” His voice was soft, buoyed by the temperate breeze drifting the scent of grass, earth and blooming flowers past them. 

“Which is?” John asked gently. 

Sherlock’s gaze darted away before returning to John, his face tight with sudden anxiety. “Mockery? Rejection?” His hands twitched against the railing, nearly mimicking John’s earlier drumming. “Forced isolation?” Offering a small shrug, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “People don’t want to be friends with the likes of me. Being alone protects me.”

Caught by the vulnerable flash of Sherlock’s pale eyes, twin glimmers like silver coins in the dark, John sucked in a breath. “Friends protect people,” he said, surprising them both. 

Sherlock’s expression flickered. His lips parted, his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t you hear me, John? I don’t have _friends,”_ he breathed the last, drawing John in, making him lean closer to catch the whisper of his hushed voice. 

“That’s not true,” John replied quietly. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and John resisted the urge to reach out and stroke his thumb over the little crease between his eyes. “You’ve got me.” 

Sherlock’s next breath rushed out, a deep sigh that John caught on the breeze. It washed over him like a surrender, a sharp exhale of relief. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply before a sound on the other side of the paddock fence made him stiffen. Sherlock blinked in response, John reacting before he heard it. John’s head turned, his eyes darting out into the dark, and Sherlock went still.

Squinting in the same direction, he said, “It’s him.”

The soft announcement set an electric-dance of adrenaline over John’s skin. Hands curling around the side of the railing, he struggled with the urge to launch over the barrier. Even stronger was the compulsion to wrestle Sherlock down to the ground in response to the potential of danger. John held his breath, fighting with both.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “Don’t move.” His eyes shifted, raking over the ex-soldier’s tense form at his side. John stiffened further. He felt impossibly rigid, his spine a steel rod, drawing his muscles inward and turning his body into a tightly coiled spring. His left hand was steady. His breathing was shallow and stilted as he held his ground.

The rustling grew louder and Sherlock’s arm shot out, his finger pointing, a stab in the night. “Now!” 

Sherlock’s command, hissed through gritted teeth, launched John forward like a bullet from a gun. His palms slapped against the top of the railing, legs pushing him up and over, catapulting onto the bent figure creeping beneath the paddock fence. John’s shoulder twinged with the impact of the landing and he voiced a low grunt, wrestling the shape beneath him to the ground. A male voice mumbled in his ear, reciting what sounded like gibberish. Confused, John began to roll off the stranger when something slammed into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping. 

Sherlock’s shout was loud in the quiet night air, John’s name and nothing more. Curling into himself, John forced his body flat and turned onto his back, trying to breathe around the spasms tensing his diaphragm, restricting his lungs. The stars were incandescent overhead, distant diamonds blurred by his swimming vision as the lack of oxygen turned the edges of his sight grey. 

Boots hit the ground beside him. Sherlock darted past, running after the fleeing man and catching him around the waist. They both went down, the image skewed from John’s perspective, still laying on his back. Finding his breath, he sat up to see Sherlock grappling with their suspect. The stranger was taller, his weight heavier against Sherlock’s slender form, the two of them scrambling futilely for the upper hand. 

As he eased back onto his feet, John caught the flash of a knife in the pale starlight. Recognition washed over him, and he surged forward, watching closely until his arm darted out. Catching the suspect by the elbow, he twisted the arm back, slamming the side of his hand down hard against the man’s wrist. The blade dropped into the grass next to Sherlock’s leg, and John stepped forward to drop his boot on top as he dragged the suspect off Sherlock.

“Everything okay, boys?” 

A voice called out from the patio, and John looked up to see Irene, likely drawn out by the commotion. The man was still spitting strange words into his face, and John locked an arm around his neck, grunting his reply.

Dusting dirt and grass from his clothes, Sherlock sat up, shooting a glance at John. “Fine. Just a bit of excitement.” 

John snorted in response. Still winded by the blow to his abdomen, he sucked in a loud breath and shifted the man onto his back so he could look into his face. To his shock, the suspect’s cheeks and forehead were painted in red, the half-dried substance flaking and dark on his skin. As he stared, horror sinking into the pit of his stomach, John realized it was blood. “What the...Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned away from the porch, now populated by all three women, watching with curious expressions as John recoiled from the man. He began to fight against John’s hold with renewed vigour. 

“Get me rope!” Sherlock shouted, moving to help John pin the man down. “And call Lestrade. Tell him to hurry.” His face was grim, his lips pulled back in a grimace at the state of the suspect, eyes narrowed in disdain for the chicken blood smeared over the furious man’s face. 

Frowning, John breathed through his nose, trying not to taste the metallic tang in the air as the man shouted and struggled against them. He felt Sherlock’s gaze on him and looked up to find pale eyes on his face, intent, searching. John cocked his head briefly before the suspect bucked, nearly dislodging them both. 

“Christ,” John muttered, gratitude washing over him when Irene appeared with a length of thick rope in hand. Holding the man down by his arms, knee pressed across thrashing legs, John watched Sherlock bind the man’s wrists behind him. His expression of distaste was gone, replaced with a strange concern that John found, bewilderingly, directed toward him.

As soon as the bonds were tight and in place, the man went still, slumping into the grass, his eyes rolling back in his head. John rocked back in shock, looking up at Irene. “I didn’t do anything,” he said, shaking his head. “He just…” he shrugged, gesturing. A light touch brushed his shoulder, Sherlock’s fingers plucking at his shirt to draw his attention.

“It wasn’t you, John,” he reassured, the touch turning into a brief grip. Looking at him, John caught the flicker of surprise on Irene’s face from the corner of his eyes, there and gone before John could turn to confirm it. 

“Right.” John shook his head, frowning down at the unconscious man, at the wrinkles of his face gummy with smeared blood. “Right.”

* * *

Lestrade’s initial complaints against being dragged away from dinner—a dinner Sherlock was meant to attend—died on his lips when he caught sight of the man slumped on the front steps of the ranch house. 

“What the bloody hell is this?” His surprised words drifted to John where he leaned against the fence looking out over the paddocks, everyone else gathered on the porch at his back. 

“A little on the nose, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, making Greg sigh. 

“Are you ever going to call me by my first name? I am your _brother-in-law.”_

“Oh, do you have one of those?” Sherlock scoffed. “I had no idea, _Lestrade.”_

Even with his back to them, John found he could perfectly picture Sherlock’s sly smile, a brief quirk of the lips in an otherwise sardonic face. Staring out into the dark, he blinked, breathing slowly as a temperate breeze wafted the smell of hay and wildflowers over his face. 

“All right, all right, very funny,” Lestrade sighed, his boots echoing on the steps. “How about you tell me what happened here.” 

Sherlock’s reply washed over John, the words tuned out and fading away as he closed his eyes. He felt untethered, afloat, the faint ache in his chest and the ever-present twinge of his shoulder barely keeping him present in his body. After the adrenaline rush earlier, he felt strangely numb, almost removed from the situation, more so than the physical distance between himself and the others allowed. With his eyes closed, John felt like he was drifting, everything fading away as he listened to the faint sigh of the wind. It rippled the fabric of his t-shirt against his chest, tousled his hair. It was hypnotic, almost surreal, like the sensations belonged to someone else. He lost himself in the ebb and flow of the easy presence of nature around him. 

“John?”

Blinking his eyes open, John startled, turning in surprise to find Sherlock at his side. He was standing close, looking down at John with concern, deep wrinkles marring the skin around his mouth and eyes. His hand rested on John’s shoulder. The only thing separating Sherlock’s warm palm from the thick, gnarled scar tissue beneath was the thin material of John’s t-shirt. Slowly recovering from his surprise, John glanced at the house behind them. The porch was empty and silent, with no sign of the women, Lestrade, or the suspect. His brow creasing, John stared at the quiet dwelling, trying and failing to put together the pieces.

“Lestrade took the man to the station,” Sherlock said gently, as if sensing John’s unspoken questions. “Irene, Molly and Kate have retired for the night.” He paused, studying John’s face before adding, “It’s nearly midnight.” 

John sucked in a breath at the information. He had lost so much time, nearly half an hour or more, faded away into a black gap in his memory. His hands tensed on the railing, knuckles turning white as his fingers curled around the pristine, white wood. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his grip on John’s shoulder turning tenuous, a faint tremour working through his arm.

“Right,” John replied, looking back into the dark. “Sorry.” 

Sherlock’s response was achingly kind, the mellow cadence of his voice making John repress a shiver. “No apology necessary, John.” 

The compassion in the words made John frown. He shifted away abruptly, arms folding tight across his chest as if keeping something trapped within. As if holding himself together. It felt necessary, like he might dissolve into the air if he didn’t keep his arms in place. 

Sherlock watched him closely but didn’t say anything, letting his outstretched hand drop to his side. 

“Um, well.” John shot another look at the darkened house before clearing his throat, not quite meeting Sherlock’s sharp gaze. “Suppose we’re done here then, yeah?” Not waiting for an answer, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and started off down the path, moving away from the house at a brisk pace. After a moment, he heard Sherlock following, catching up easily with his long legs. He fell into step with John even when John’s gait morphed into a rough march.

They walked in silence. Sherlock seemed to respect John’s need for space, for quiet, as John breathed in time with his swinging arms, eyes narrowed and fixed ahead. When Sherlock did speak, he did so with obvious reluctance, like he thought he might be intruding.

“John, I hadn’t fully anticipated the events which transpired tonight.” Sherlock cleared his throat. From the corners of his eyes, John saw his hands were twisting together uncertainly as Sherlock went on, “If something upset you, I apologize for any part I may have played in it.”

John drew to a halt, the sudden stop making his heels skid against the dirt underfoot. “Upset me?” he repeated, turning to look at Sherlock, hovering at his side, his expression tense. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Watching him, Sherlock’s eyes flickered over his face. “Nothing, John. I didn’t mean anything untoward—”

“Then what are you talking about?” John cut him off, trying and failing to keep the waver out of his voice. Agitation worked through his body, into his hands, the left jerking violently. Sherlock watched the movement with hard eyes, his jaw tensed.

“I don’t...” Sherlock looked away, frowning. He was silent for a moment, and John stared at his face until he turned back, his lips pressed into a hard line. “The man we apprehended today,” he began, the new direction catching John off guard. “He believed himself to have... _abilities._ ” Sherlock squinted as if reaching for the right words. Listening closely, John wondered where he was going with this. “He told Lestrade that he had been granted certain powers through ritual. A gift from the Earth, given to him from the blood of Irene’s chickens.” Eyes dropping to his feet, Sherlock sighed. “I asked Lestrade to have him seen by a mental health professional, instead of just charging him with property damage and animal cruelty.” 

Hanging on his words, mesmerized, John licked his dry lips, meeting Sherlock’s eyes when he looked up again. When John didn’t speak, Sherlock continued.

“Irene agreed,” Sherlock said, his tone resolute. “The man needs help. Hopefully, he will get it.” He hesitated, breaking eye contact again as he added, “Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, John.” 

John went stiff as the words sank in, revealing Sherlock’s train of thought. His hands clenched, fingers fluttering against his palms. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re—” he began angrily, trailing off when Sherlock suddenly stepped closer, erasing the space between them and taking the air with him. 

“John, I’m only trying to tell you that it’s fine.” Sherlock’s voice was a rough rasp, catching in his throat until he coughed to clear it, speaking in a softer tone. “You don’t have to hide from me. I…” he paused, shaking his head slowly, his hands clenching and releasing with the effort of his vulnerability. His inhale sounded sharp, the exhale brittle. “I don’t want you to think you need to be anything other than yourself.”

Dazed, realizing he had been holding his breath, John sucked air into his aching lungs. His fingers tingled where they were pressed hard against his thighs. As he stared at the man in front of him, trying to form words, his mind went blank, everything erased by conflicting urges to run away and never stop. Or to reach out and place his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, drawing it down to his.

John shook his head, breathing a stuttering inhale that dragged over his bottom lip. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, still blindsided and reeling. Sherlock hadn’t said anything John hadn’t heard a thousand times since returning from Afghanistan, and yet it sounded new to him. Unlike the brittle lip-service quality of the words from everyone else, Sherlock was genuine, his earnest acceptance underlined by the almost unnerving vulnerability in his face. 

“Of course.” Sherlock’s reply was simple, straight-forward. Without speaking, they fell into step again, moving further into the moonlit dark with a charged but comfortable silence between them.

* * *

When John’s house came into view, rising from the gloom, he expected Sherlock to peel off in the direction of his own property. Instead, he accompanied John to the bottom of his porch and lingered. Feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him as he climbed the first step, John stopped and turned, finding their faces almost level.

“Sherlock...” he began before the rest of his words faded. 

Sherlock, with a strange, rapt expression on his face, reached out toward him. His fingertips brushed John’s cheek, drawing a gentle sweep up to his temple, into the beginning of his hairline. “Goodnight, John,” he murmured. Sherlock stared at his own hand, his touch lingering on John’s skin.

John swallowed around a dry throat, replying, “Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

A slight smile curved Sherlock’s lips, his eyes strange and silver before his hand dropped and he stepped away. Turning, he strode into the dark without looking back, disappearing into the night and leaving John frozen in place on his porch steps. 

After watching him go, John finally turned and climbed the remaining steps, fumbling for his keys in the dark until he made it inside. Locking the door, he pressed his back against it for a moment, frowning into the dim kitchen. Sherlock’s touch lingered on his skin like the fading sear of a brand burned into his flesh, impossible to erase. With a shake of his head, he strode through the kitchen to the bathroom. When he flicked on the light, John caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and paused, bracing his hands on the sink as he looked at himself. 

On his face, in the same path marked by Sherlock’s fingers on his skin, was dried blood. Dabbed onto his cheekbone, it swooped up over his temple, disappearing into the edge of his fair hair. Staring, John lifted shaking fingers to touch the smudge, his other hand tightening on the porcelain. It must have come from the man they’d caught, transferred to John’s face during their struggle. The sight of it made his stomach clench, a wave of nausea washing over him. John’s hand balled into a fist, and he pressed his knuckles against the sink, squinting down at the drain. Revulsion rippled through his body, driving him toward the shower, reaching for the taps with unsteady fingers as he stepped over the edge of the tub. 

The water was frigid, shocking his system, stealing the breath from his lungs and making him gasp. It warmed to a molten heat, filling the bathroom with steam as John scrubbed fretfully at his face. Once his skin felt red and raw, he scrubbed harder, uncertain whether he was trying to wash away the blood or the memory of Sherlock’s touch. 

* * *

That night, his nightmares were plagued by the familiar rattle of guns and the rumble of explosions, but the faces of his fallen comrades were wrong. Gone were the fixed stares of those who had bled out into the sand beneath his useless hands. They were replaced with sharp silvery eyes, severe cheekbones, and dark, curly hair. No matter where he looked, no matter how many times he fell to his knees beside a body, it was the same. Over and over again, John looked into Sherlock’s pale, empty stare, and knew he was too late.

He bolted upright an hour before sunrise. His body was heavy with fear, and John felt like he might physically choke on it. The weight he felt pressing on his chest reduced breathing to an ineffective gasp, his hands clawing at the sheets as he shuddered and panted his way back to reality. 

When his vision finally cleared, Sherlock’s bloodied face fading from his mind, John curled in on himself. Legs drawn to his chest, knees hugged by trembling arms, he closed his eyes and bit back a sob. He ground damp lashes against the soft fabric covering his knees, smearing unshed tears into the material. 

Clenching his teeth, John rolled his head to the side and drove a fist into the pillow. 

* * *

He felt hollow. Cradling a full mug of tea long since gone cold, John stood still, staring out the front window of the kitchen. The day was blustery, a brisk wind dancing leaves and dust across the yard in a swirling haze. It matched his mood, chaotic and dissonant, thoughts scattered in each cardinal direction. There was an empty space in John’s chest, growing, spreading, devouring him from the inside out. Every time he tried to fill it, nothing fit into the gap the bullet had torn into his body.

Exhausted by his thoughts and lack of quality sleep, John sank into one of the rickety chairs set around the kitchen table. He set the mug on top of the checkered tablecloth, letting his head drop into his hands. There was a sticky layer of sweat on his skin as he tried to push back a rush of panic-inducing memories. They threatened to overwhelm him. Teeth clenched to the point of aching, John wondered how much longer he could go on. How he could keep pushing forward when his grasp on reality was so tenuous. 

He was grabbing for straws when what he needed was a lifeline. 

Mary had been right to leave him, jumping ship when her husband returned broken. She had known right away, seen it all in his eyes, known he was just an echo of the man who had once been John Watson. 

Working his hands through his hair, fingers scraping over scalp, John realized he envied his ex-wife. He also wished he could leave himself behind. 

Self-pity was an immense weight on his shoulders, bending and pushing his shoulders forward, twisting him into a tense coil. His head ached with the ricochet of gunfire, and John shoved his hand against his mouth, biting hard into the soft flesh of his palm to muffle the urge to scream, to try to wipe out the pressure and the noise in his head. 

There was a gun in the drawer of his bedside table, tucked beneath bottles of expired prescribed medication and a mostly-empty journal with a page and a half of pointless writing. It was his old service revolver, illegal and mostly ignored. However, John found his thoughts turning toward it more and more often. It had become a tempting potential solution, a means to an end, something to finally free him from his mental torment. His way out. Knowing it was there was a relief, even if he was too cowardly to actually make use of it. 

Watching sunrise break over the horizon, blocked in part by trees and the mountains rising in the distance, John set his mug aside, switching it for his mobile. As he stood, he scrolled through the contacts. It was an abysmal list, made up of people he no longer spoke to, or who had fallen out of his life well before his first deployment. Half-forgotten names ticked past his aching, exhausted eyes until he landed on Mary’s. John stared at the entry, still input as _Mary Watson_ , and his grip tightened. The edges of the phone pressed into his hand until he shook his head and scrolled up, searching for and selecting another number from the list. 

Pressing the phone to his ear, he listened to the line ring out, counting one, two, three trills as he wondered if the call would be answered, even though he knew the person on the other end would certainly be awake, just as he was. The line finally connected and a rough voice spoke in his ear with a gruff, “Hello?” At the familiar tone, John’s eyes sank shut, and he breathed a sigh, the tension easing from his body.

“James,” he paused, scrubbing a hand over his face, a slight, grim smile curving his lips. “It’s John.”

Silence met his words, broken suddenly by a whoosh of air. “Jesus, John? John Watson? Wow.” James paused on the other end. “It...it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John said softly, swallowing around a sudden tightness in his throat. “It has. Um. How are you?”

James sounded cautious, his words reaching John through distance and uncertainty. “I’m alright. Some days are better than others.” There was a faint, bitter laugh. “What am I saying? You know how it is, don’t you, Watson?” 

“Yeah, I do.” John cleared his throat. Reaching out, eyes unfocused, he traced a finger over the chipped handle of his mug. The silence stretched out, his vision blurred with the memory of desert sands and lifeblood until James coughed on the other end of the line.

“What can I do for you, Watson? Ah, not that it’s not nice to hear from you. Just… you know.” 

_It’s hard_ , came the unsaid words, filtering between them. John’s hand tightened on the phone. 

“How do you do it, James?” he breathed, the question escaping before he could stop it. His lips felt numb as he went on, “How do you...keep going?” 

Another silence, this one strained, heavy, stretching out into an almost painful absence of sound. John licked his lips, his tongue flicking out over dry, chapped skin. 

“I’m sorry, John,” James sighed loudly in his ear, his tone suddenly unsteady. “I don’t know what to tell you. Just...sometimes it’s easier to be alone than it is to reach out, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.” John could picture James’ frown with ease, despite the scars he knew marred the side of his former Major’s face. The face he had grown to know almost as well as his own. He closed his eyes, holding onto the image. 

“You know Mary left me, right?” Catching the faint, sharp inhale on the other end, John realized that James did know. His lips twisted as he went on. “She slapped the divorce papers down in front of me and demanded I fill them out. Said she didn’t sign up for a tour of duty, that it wasn’t fair I’d brought the war back with me.” Eyes flashing open, John stared out the window, watching miniature cyclones of leaves whip dust into the air. 

“I’d heard, yeah.” James sounded resigned, his voice tinged with regret. “I’m sorry, John. You deserve better than that. And I know it’s hard to understand right now, but...just…” he paused, breathing a deep sigh over the connection. “Learn how to not be alone. Even when your brain tells you you’re better off without anyone, it’s wrong. You are a good man, John. You can have a good life. Don’t be afraid to reach out.”

It began to rain outside. Thick, fat drops slanted against the side of the house, running down the windowpane in sheets of water. Watching, John swallowed against the suffocating sensation that he was drowning, sinking under the waves without the feeling of liquid around him. 

“What about you?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the rain. “Aren’t you alone?”

A soft, humourless laugh hummed in his ear. “How do you think I know what I do?” James said. His voice hardened, an echo of his past self. “Now, do what I say, Captain Watson. That’s an order.”

The corners of John’s lips twitched, almost but not quite curving upward. “Yessir.” 

“Good.” A pause. “It’s nice to hear from you, John. Even if...you know.”

“Yeah.” John reached out, pressing a hand to the cold glass. “You too, James. Be well.”

“And you, John.”

The line went dead, the dial tone clicking over in his ear. Still holding the silent phone, John stared at the dull, grey world outside. Begrudgingly, his legs moved on their own and he crossed the kitchen, back to the table. His hand lowered, letting the mobile settle on the tablecloth. Leaving it there, he passed through the kitchen into the sitting room at the back of the house. Through the windows, the storm grew, raging toward a gale, branches blowing across the rickety back porch. John moved to the old sofa, sinking into cracked leather, letting the furniture cradle his body with the comfort of a well-worn seat. 

James’ words echoed in his head. Frowning, John folded his legs beneath him, his feet tucked against the sofa cushion. There was a tv in front of him, set on a plain wooden table, but he stared at the blank screen without turning it on. He saw his own reflection staring back at him, face distorted by the display. 

_You are a good man, John. Don’t be afraid to reach out._

James Sholto, formerly John’s commanding officer in Afghanistan was a brave man with an imposing, tall figure, and reddish-blonde hair. A handsome man, popular among men and women both until his sharp face had been nearly melted off by a firebomb in Kandahar. John remembered that day, watching from afar as skin liquified and blistered under the immense heat. Men screaming, dying all around him. James, clawing at the sand as half his body burned to the bone, too far away for John to reach him, to stop the fire from eating him alive.

John had pitied him. Cursed his own self-centred thoughts even as he thanked the universe for sparing him from having experienced that agony. For putting him in a different Rover, for cheating death and disfigurement. For not losing himself and his worth as a soldier in seconds of explosive heat and sound. Then, four months later, a bullet ripped through his shoulder and threw him face-first into the sand, blood filling his mouth and lungs like some kind of cosmic joke.

Staring at his reflection in the silent television, John remembered how he had felt in that moment. The sun, blinding him, had blazed down onto his ashen skin like an iron brand, burning even as he grew colder. He had waited to bleed out, fingers and limbs going numb as his strength seeped into the reddening sand. 

Sometimes, John wondered if he had died there. If this existence was just some kind of limbo, or a coma dream, endless and black with despair. 

Listening to the rain thundering against the roof, loud in the silent, empty house, it was hard to imagine he had ever really escaped anything. 

* * *

The storm blew itself out by midday. When the sun broke through the clouds, it shone over a sodden, soaked landscape. 

Standing under the cover of his back porch, John watched water drip from the trees. Shallow, muddy pools formed with each drop, the earth too water-logged to drink it down. With his hands wrapped around the old railing, John followed the progress of birds as they hopped over the damp grass. They halted, pecked, hunting for worms when they rose to the surface of the wet dirt. It was life in action, nature in a brutal normality, a strangely soothing parallel to his roiling, violent thoughts. 

Someone called his name from the front of the house and John startled. Shaking the surprise away, his breathing too quick and unsteady in his lungs, he leaned around the railing and called, “At the back!” Silence met his voice. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned further, stilling as he heeded the laborious groan of the wood pressed against his stomach. John waited, ears straining until the faint sound of footsteps reached him, made wet and loud by the sodden ground. The noise announced his presence seconds before Sherlock appeared around the side of the house. He wore a long, dark coat, pulled snug around his tall form, his curls frizzy with the damp humidity hanging in the air. Looking at him, John thought the untamed look was strangely comely.

While John’s neighbour picked his way through the mud and storm debris, John watched, noting Sherlock’s unconscious grace, moving sure-footed around rocks, leaves, and branches. Sherlock looked up, and the faint, mild smile on his face faded at the sight of John. He stopped, the sudden halt placing one of his expensive-looking boots in a mud puddle. John winced in sympathy, imagining the sodden, soaking seep of frigid water into both shoe and sock.

“Smooth,” he teased, his attempt at amusement falling flat when Sherlock continued to stare at him. His brow furrowed, eyes darting over John’s face with harder focus than usual. John opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Sherlock strode forward quickly, mounting the stairs to the back porch with rushed steps. His soaked boot dripped dirty water onto the pale wood, ignored by both of them as he moved toward John. 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock’s voice was intense, matching his expression. His eyes darted over John’s face as if searching for some horrific, life-altering sign in the wrinkles of John’s skin. 

“I could ask you the same,” John retorted, caught off-guard by the unsettling scrutiny. Sherlock frowned, confused. “You stepped in a mud puddle, then ran up my porch like a man possessed.” John’s lips quirked, eyes narrowing as he studied Sherlock’s face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped, squinting. “And I asked you first.” 

John blinked. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said slowly. 

Skepticism flickered over Sherlock’s face, sharpening his gaze. “You’re a terrible liar, John.” 

Thoroughly bewildered, thrown off-balance by Sherlock’s abrupt interrogation, John bristled. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

The words seemed to strike the other man like a physical blow. Wincing, Sherlock took a step back. “I was just…” His brows knitted together as his mouth folded into a tense line. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” He cleared his throat, taking another step back, then another. “Excuse me, I shouldn’t have assumed my presence would be welcome.” Turning on his heel, shrugging his coat tighter around him, Sherlock clattered down the steps, back into the soggy yard. 

Startled, it took John a moment before he found his voice, Sherlock already halfway around the side of the house by the time he spoke. “Hey, wait!” 

Sherlock hesitated, slowing but still moving away from him. John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, wait. Please.” Sherlock paused. Half-turned toward John, his sharp profile appeared stark against the watery sun. Looking at him, at the light softening the hard angles of his face, John felt his chest tighten. “Just. Come back. You…” Frowning, he rubbed at his jaw, palm rasping against a dusting of stubble. “You’re always welcome here, alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to him. They flashed silver in the post-storm illumination, and he looked ethereal, otherworldly. John’s mouth felt suddenly dry. 

“Please,” he repeated softly. Something in his plea seemed to resonate with Sherlock. With a brief squint, the other man nodded before returning, picking his way around the slick ground. When he climbed the steps, his wet boot caught on an uneven board, tripping him up. Without thinking, John stepped forward, catching him with a hand on his arm. Sherlock was warm under his grip, the heavy wool of his coat a coarse, solid texture against his palm. 

Feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him, John stepped away quickly.

“Careful,” he muttered, looking out into the backyard. There was a moment of silence before he turned back to find Sherlock still studying his face intently. “Um. Tea?” Sherlock nodded. Relieved to have an excuse to turn away, John led the way inside, letting Sherlock precede him before pulling the door shut behind them. 

The back porch opened into the sitting room, faintly illuminated by the wan sunlight filtering through the windows. As John pushed the curtains open wider, Sherlock hovered by the door, dripping mud and water onto the floorboards from his sodden boot. 

“Um, why don’t you take those off,” John said, gesturing at the boots. “I have some socks you can borrow, and we can put the boots by the fire. Let me just…” his voice fading, he busied himself with the fireplace. John knelt before the grate, strategically setting kindling in the grate from the pile beside the couch. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back. It was a light, prickling sensation against the nape of his neck, one John studiously ignored as he struck a match. Holding it to the edge of a crumpled newspaper page, John watched the paper catch and blacken, curling as the small fire ate into the fuel, spreading to the dry wood. 

Once the fire was crackling, throwing off a pleasant heat that helped pull the chill from the air, John turned to find Sherlock standing just behind him, boots and socks in hand. Catching John’s eye, Sherlock knelt at his side and offered the wet clothing, watching John set them against the stonework of the fireplace. Hunkered in front of the fire with Sherlock beside him was surprisingly peaceful, and John blinked into the flames, letting himself appreciate the quiet atmosphere for the brief blessing it was. 

Sherlock sighed quietly, basking in the heat. The sound snapped John out of his reverie. Tilting his head toward Sherlock, John was caught by the prismatic hues of his eyes, shifting as they studied his. He swallowed, the motion making a loud click with the flexing of his throat, and offered a small smile. 

“Tea?” he asked, repeating himself, dazed by the intensity directed toward him. Sherlock’s mouth twitched, curling up slightly at the corners as his face softened minutely. 

“Please.” His voice was hardly more than a breath. 

Swallowing again, John nodded. “Right. Of course. Let me put the kettle on, and I’ll grab those socks for you.” He rose with difficulty, stiff muscles protesting after squatting on his haunches. Sherlock remained where he was, his attention turned to the fire with the flickering flames reflected in his eyes. 

John left him there, walking quickly into the kitchen. His hands shook as he filled the kettle, nearly banging it onto the element with the unsteady vibration working its way through his fingers. Setting the temperature to high, he crossed to the hallway and made his way to the bedroom. The sparse space was bathed in soft yellow by the sunlight, filtering in through the tall windows. John glanced outside on his way to the wardrobe, checking the weather before retrieving a pair of thick, warm socks and making his way back to the kitchen.

The kettle was beginning to rumble as the water heated, and he poked his head into the living room to find Sherlock still in front of the fire. He had removed his coat, setting it in front of the fireplace with his shoes and socks. Settled on his backside, long legs folded beneath him with hands resting loosely on his bent knees, Sherlock had a pensive expression on his face. He startled at John’s approach, blinking up at him as if coming out of a daze. 

“Here.” John held out the bundled socks, watching Sherlock take them with hesitant hands, long fingers plucking the offering from John, eyes flickering over John’s face. His tongue appeared, pressing briefly against his bottom lip before disappearing once more as he nodded. 

“Thank you.”

John returned the nod. “Of course. Um. I better…” he tilted his head toward the kitchen, turning away to escape back into the other room. 

The kettle was still heating, and John stared at it with unfocused, unseeing eyes. Despite Sherlock’s interruption, he found himself sinking back beneath the dark waters in his head. Hands curled around the edge of the counter, his teeth clicked together, tension ticking through his jaw. Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice when Sherlock entered the kitchen, only acknowledging his presence once Sherlock appeared at his side. 

“John?” His fingers brushed lightly over John’s shoulder, startling him out of his head. 

“Oh.” John blinked his vision into focus and looked up at him with mild surprise. “Sorry. I was...woolgathering.” 

Sherlock nodded but didn’t speak. As before, his eyes studied John’s face. Sharp, they seemed to be searching for something, and John wondered if he had found it when Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

John resisted the urge to bristle, but his shoulders rose slightly in a defensive posture. “Why do you keep asking me that?” At Sherlock’s silence, John scowled. “I said I was fine.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched down at the corners. “Actually, you said, ‘nothing’s wrong,’” he quoted, brows still drawn low. He looked contemplative, bottom lip pushing out slightly. 

“And I meant it,” John retorted, dropping his eyes to the kettle as it rattled its way toward a boil. “So stop asking.” 

“John, I didn’t mean—” 

Something snapped inside of him. It was like a burst dam, but instead of trapped water, a hot, burning feeling flooded through his chest. It took John’s breath away, and he slammed his palms hard against the kitchen counter, choking out, “I’m _fine,_ Sherlock.” Unable to meet his eyes, John stared at his own hands without blinking until his vision blurred. “Why do you keep asking me? What do you want me to say? I don’t...” Piqued, shaking his head with a strange and sudden rush of anger, he turned and met Sherlock’s gaze, the words dying in his throat as Sherlock’s fingers first brushed then wrapped around his bicep.

His eyes darkened, Sherlock stared down at him. There was something odd in his expression, a borderline helplessness, and his lips moved but nothing emerged, lost for words. Looking at him, John’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had come, seeping out and leaving behind bone-deep fatigue. Weighed down, John sagged. His limbs went limp, hands nearly slipping off the counter when they began to shake again. 

“John.” Sherlock sounded uncertain but steady, and John was undone. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. His eyes closed, his face tensing. A violent tremour worked through him. It was out of his control, goosebumps rising on his skin in response to the adrenaline exhaustion flooding his body. Lifting a hand, John covered his face, teeth grinding together as he tried to get himself back under control. “Just...give me a second.” 

He moved to turn away, and Sherlock’s hand tightened on his arm. Eyes opening in surprise, lashes clumped and damp, John looked up into his face. He steeled himself for disgust, for judgement, for bewildered frustration, but what he found was something else entirely. 

Seconds before Sherlock tugged gently at his arm, drawing John into his body, he saw acceptance. 

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, one tight around his waist, the other about his upper back. A large hand cupped the nape of his neck, encouraging John’s head to rest in the dip between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, and he did, his cheek finding a natural cradle.

Initially, John stiffened, tension flashing through his body, an instinctive response to the unexpected contact. As he focused into the moment, he became aware of Sherlock’s fingers brushing lightly through the hair at the base of his skull. Of Sherlock’s breathing, shaky and not-quite-steady, stirring silver strands on John’s head. He felt the heavy thud of Sherlock’s heart, a melded tempo vibrating through their chests where they pressed together. 

John softened.

As they stood there, Sherlock’s hold didn’t loosen, his arms firm about John until the tremours working through John’s frame began to slow. They eased and stopped, John breathing out a long, loud gust of air when the tension in his muscles finally released. With obvious uncertainty, Sherlock’s hand moved from the base of his neck, first upward to brush through John’s sweat-damp hair, then back down, nestling between his shoulder blades. The touch drew shivers over his skin, and John raised his head, drawn to the silvery eyes already looking down at him.

“Sherlock.” The name rose without thought, breathed from a suddenly dry mouth. Sherlock’s face flickered with something brief and fleeting in response. His hands tightened on John’s back, drawing him closer with an almost minute pull. His eyes dropped to John’s mouth, lids falling to half-mast when John’s tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip. 

John said it again, a soft, breathless, _Sherlock,_ the only invitation Sherlock seemed to need before the distance disappeared between them. Instead of an embrace, their mouths found one another, first in a tentative brush, then firmer. John’s lips slotted against Sherlock’s bottom lip, close-mouthed and chaste, but still sending a thrill down John’s spine. It was like the air before a thunderstorm, a breath caught before a plunge into icy water, the silver, fleeting feeling of an electric current over skin. 

Sherlock’s fingers fluttered against the fabric of his shirt, and John dropped his hands to Sherlock’s waist, palms curving over the jut of his hips as he drew him closer. Breathing a soft gasp in response, Sherlock allowed himself to be tugged nearer, lips parting at the lightest brush of John’s tongue. 

Tasting heat and Sherlock’s breath, John barely kept himself from groaning. He tilted his head, letting Sherlock lick into his mouth with slow, tentative sweeps of his tongue. Sherlock’s hands slid up his back, over his shoulders and along his neck to bracket John’s face. The counter pressed into his hips, but John ignored it, Sherlock a warm, firm weight against his body, his movements endearingly timid, his lips achingly soft.

The kettle’s shrill whistle startled them both, drawing their mouths apart. Sherlock’s face was flushed, his cheeks dark with colour, his eyes darker still and fixed on John’s. His hands framed John’s skull, long fingers drifting slowly through the silvered hair at his temples. 

Holding his gaze, John reached out an unsteady hand to find the kettle. With Sherlock’s breath hot and fast against his jaw, he set the kettle on a cold burner, turned off the stove, and brought his hand back, placing it lightly on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s pulse was a hard, racing beat beneath John’s palm, and uncertainty filtered over Sherlock's face, flickering through his eyes. Still breathless, inhaling the carbon dioxide from Sherlock’s mouth into his own lungs, John tilted forward. He found Sherlock’s lips again, shivering at the feeling of Sherlock’s heartbeat stuttering under his hand as Sherlock kissed him with gentle attentiveness. The sensation was almost painful, searing John with the tranquillity of the moment, Sherlock’s mouth pliant and yielding against his. 

John felt himself growing hard where he was pressed up against Sherlock’s thigh and almost jerked back in embarrassment until he felt Sherlock’s answering arousal. It had been months since he’d experienced such a response, disconnected as he was from his own body since returning from Afghanistan. Despite his best efforts, a soft whimper escaped John’s lips between kisses, and Sherlock held him closer, his hands trembling where they stroked through John’s hair, traced the line of his jaw. 

Just as John was beginning to wonder how far this might go—and how far he might be willing for it to go—someone knocked on the front door. Their reactions were almost simultaneous, Sherlock jerking back as John pressed harder into the edge of the counter. They stared at one another for a second, Sherlock’s lips swollen, John’s likely the same, breathing shakily in the sudden separation between their bodies. The knock came again, and John shook himself out of his daze while Sherlock went to answer the door. His movements were strangely unbalanced, fingers flexing before they closed around the doorknob. When he pulled it open and revealed Greg, John felt his face immediately begin to burn.

“Sherlock? I didn’t expect to find you here.” Greg leaned forward to peer around the door. John quickly busied himself making tea to hide his face, turning his hips to face the counter. 

“Then why are you here?” Sherlock asked, his sharp tone making John nearly drop a mug. He chanced a glance over his shoulder in time to catch Greg looking at him curiously and sucked in a loud breath as he forced his hands steady.

“Well, I was looking for _you_ , but you weren’t at home.” Greg’s voice was suddenly amused. “I thought I’d ask John if he’d seen you, and here you are.” His words seemed to hint at something more, and John coughed to clear his suddenly tight throat when Lestrade added, “Afternoon, John.”

Pasting a smile on his face, John turned with a steaming mug in each hand. “Afternoon.” 

A strange expression in place, his lips still slightly swollen, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why were you looking for me?”

Greg ignored Sherlock’s curt tone, answering calmly, “I think I’ve got something for you.” His eyes darted to John, who dropped his focus back to the tea. “If you’ve got the time.” 

“Of course I’ve got the time,” Sherlock replied, twitching slightly in John’s direction. “What is it?”

One of Greg’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced between John and Sherlock before answering. “There’s been a break-in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Nightmare](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEJlGdVtNmo) \- flora cash  
> [Finally // beautiful stranger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhBB2lxjgOc) \- Halsey  
> [Hot Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6PuTFmn_ds) \- Kaleo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for panic attacks.

How he ended up accompanying Greg and Sherlock to the break-in was, to John, a complete mystery. Even standing outside a small house behind the two men, hands stuffed into his pockets, he still didn’t know. It had all been a blur, Sherlock’s blush fading as he’d hurried John along to dress for the day, retrieving his still-wet jacket and boots before shoving John out his own front door. 

There hadn’t been a moment of privacy between them to talk about the kiss, and John wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed. He was still having a hard time remaining in his own body, his mind seeking out the detachment he had felt at Irene’s the night before. Watching Sherlock shift impatiently in front of the small house, he tried to ground himself. Eyes focused on Sherlock’s movements, John breathed in, long and deep, letting the air out in a loud whoosh. Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder, offering a raised eyebrow and a tentative smile that John found himself automatically returning. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, settling on John’s face before his attention was recaptured by the door swinging open.

“Sherlock!” The woman who greeted him was older, her greying blonde hair short and wispy about her face. “Oh, I’d hoped you’d be the one to come.” As if reconsidering her words, she smiled at Greg. “Not that your presence isn’t welcome, Officer Lestrade!”

“Ah, thanks,” Greg muttered, clearing his throat. The woman patted him on the arm before reaching out to draw Sherlock into a tight hug. To John’s surprise, he allowed the gesture, a small smile on his sharp face. 

Looking over Sherlock’s shoulder, the woman’s eyes landed on John, her brows rising. When she and Sherlock separated, she turned toward John. “Oh, hello!” she said, looking him over with a smile. “And who is this handsome young man?” 

John felt his cheeks flush. “John Watson,” he replied, realizing Sherlock’s face had reddened as well. John frowned, but Mrs. Hudson was reaching out to knock aside his offered hand and pull him into a hug, and he lost sight of Sherlock’s reaction.

“Wonderful to meet you, Mister Watson,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, releasing him with a final pat on the shoulder. John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock cut him off.

“It’s Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Er, yeah,” John confirmed at Mrs. Hudson’s querying look.

“A doctor! Lovely! Are you going to be working at the clinic? We need a new face around here, and yours is wonderfully easy on the eyes.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice continued onward, and John found himself towed into the house, her arm linked through his. He followed, dazed, shooting a look at Sherlock over his shoulder as she led the way into the sitting room. The detective trailed after them, Greg at his side, both of them too busy studying the entryway to catch John’s panic. 

“What brings you to our little town, Doctor Watson?” Mrs. Hudson steered John toward an overstuffed armchair, ignoring his protests as she made him sit. 

“Um, just looking for something quiet, I suppose,” he replied, trying and failing to refuse the plate of biscuits she was pushing into his hands. 

“Oh, well, you’ll definitely find that here!” Mrs. Hudson watched with expectant eyes until he bit into one of the biscuits. The centre was soft and sugary, and John smiled as Mrs. Hudson prattled on. “Where were you before? London?” 

Swallowing, John nodded. “Yes. Before that, I was overseas.”

“America?” she asked, and John grimaced, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. 

“Something like that,” he said, dodging the truth. 

“I lived in America for a bit. Florida. That’s where I met Sherlock, actually. He was there on holiday and helped me when I got in a bit of bad business with my husband.” She smiled fondly at the memories, and John frowned. But the moment passed. “Such a dear. Well, we’re happy to have you!” Mrs. Hudson said, patting his arm.

John offered a faint smile in response and looked around the house. It was cluttered with soft-looking furniture. The walls were a strange clash of patterned wallpaper, but the space was still homey. His eyes moved toward the hall, where Sherlock and Greg were talking quietly with their heads bent together. Suddenly feeling left out, John busied himself picking another biscuit, trying to keep his hands occupied. As if catching his flash of insecurity, Mrs. Hudson perched on the arm of his chair, raising her voice to include the men in the hallway in the conversation. 

“So, how did you and Sherlock meet?” 

John flinched, wishing she had chosen any other topic. At the question, Sherlock looked up, his expectant eyes landing on John as Greg disappeared down the hall, deeper into the house. “Ah, we’re neighbours,” John replied. His mouth felt dry, and he almost choked on the biscuit, coughing awkwardly into his hand. Sherlock looked away as Mrs. Hudson patted John’s shoulder. 

“Let me get you a cuppa.”

“Oh, no,” John began, shaking his head and nearly choking again. “It...it's fine, really.”

“Nonsense. Just a tick,” she insisted, ignoring his protests and disappearing into the kitchen. 

Staring at his hands, finally able to swallow past the biscuit dust in his throat, John wanted to disappear. Being fussed over was an unfamiliar feeling, and his fingers flexed helplessly against his palms. He felt a shiver work through his frame. Gritting his teeth against it, he startled when Sherlock appeared at his side.

“Alright?”

With a few quick blinks, John wet his lips and nodded. “Yeah, fine.” He looked back to his hands, frowning. 

“She can be a lot,” Sherlock said, and John glanced back up at him as he clarified, “Mrs. Hudson. She means well.” 

“Yeah,” John said, nodding again. “Of course. I know.” 

Sherlock smiled down at him. Uncertainty flickered over his face, and his fingers brushed John’s shoulder. “John, I—”

“Here you are, luv.” Mrs. Hudson’s reappearance interrupted them as she set a tray on the coffee table in front of John. “Wasn’t sure how you took it, so I brought both cream and sugar.” There were two cups on the tray, and John reached for one, grateful for the interference. He had a feeling Sherlock had been about to bring up the kiss, and John didn’t want to talk about it. Not here. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“You’re welcome.” Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly, even as she swatted at Sherlock’s hand when he reached for the second mug. “That’s for me, young man. Go get your own!” Sherlock affected a pout. His fingers disappearing from John’s shoulder, he dropped onto the sofa across from him. Greg returned, tucking a small notebook into his pocket and taking a seat next to Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson, maybe you could walk us through what happened?”

“Of course.” She settled herself once more on the arm of John’s chair, mug in hand. Bewildered, John sipped at his tea, resisting the urge to lean away from her as she began. “I came home from my sister’s this morning and the front door was open. Lock broken, leaves blown inside. Dreadful.” She shook her head, tsking. “A right mess, it was. Took me ages to get it all swept up. Really, who leaves a door open like that?”

“Probably a burglar,” Sherlock muttered. 

Greg shot him a look before turning his attention back to Mrs. Hudson. “Was anything taken?” 

“Well, that’s the strange thing,” Mrs. Hudson said, her brows knitting together. She absently patted John’s shoulder as she thought, and he resisted the urge to fidget, busying his hands with his cup. “It didn’t seem like it, at first. Then Billy noticed a few photos were missing. And a picture album.” She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Why anyone would bother taking such personal things…” She shrugged, sniffing again. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock and Greg shared a grim look. John sipped his tea, feeling several steps behind and wondering who Billy was. As if she could read his mind, Mrs. Hudson looked down at him and said, “Billy is my great-nephew. His mum passed away five years ago, and my sister isn’t well enough to look after him, so he stays with me.” She smiled, face lighting up. “He’s a bit of a silly boy, but he helps out, and it’s nice to have the company.” Tilting her chin toward Sherlock, drawing John’s attention to the two men talking quietly on the couch, she added, “He helps Sherlock with his honey, sometimes. Bit of an apprentice. Doesn’t like many people, him, but they seem to get on just fine.” 

“Billy doesn’t like most people?” John asked, wondering if Billy might be a suspect. But Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“Oh, no, he does. Billy loves just about everyone he meets. Never stops talking, that one.” Her smile returned and softened. “I meant Sherlock, dear.” Her hand found his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “But I can tell he likes you. Must be something special in you, Doctor Watson, to have caught his eye.”

John felt his face flush, and he cleared his throat, trying to control the reaction. “Ah, sure,” he replied roughly. 

Mrs. Hudson offered him another smile and a playful wink. Her voice dropped, soft and just between them. “I know what I see, Doctor Watson. And what I see is Sherlock watching you.”

Taken-aback, he looked up from staring into his tea to find Sherlock’s eyes on him from over the coffee table. John dropped his gaze quickly, hands unsteady where they wrapped around his mug. Mrs. Hudson just patted his shoulder again.

* * *

Leaving Mrs. Hudson to tidy the dishes, the three men walked toward town, John trailing slightly behind as Greg and Sherlock discussed the case. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice when Greg peeled off towards the police station, leaving him and Sherlock alone. 

“John?” 

John lifted his eyes from the ground, where he had been watching an ant carry something small and dead over the walking path. “Hmm? Sorry, what?” He blinked, shaking his head slowly as he took in Sherlock’s concerned expression. 

“I asked if you were hungry,” Sherlock said, obviously repeating himself, searching John’s face with his sharp eyes. 

“Oh, um.” Frowning, John checked his watch. It was well past noon. Aside from two cups of tea, and a handful of biscuits, he hadn’t eaten much in the way of anything concrete. After a moment to consider his stomach, John found it to be a twisting, clenching mess and winced at the thought of putting anything more in it. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He paused, asking, “You?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t eat much when I’m on a case,” he said, folding his hands together. “Slows me down.” He began to walk again, and John followed, at a loss for what else to do. 

They skirted the edge of town, finding their way to the same path John had walked the other day on his way home from meeting with Greg at the station. However, unlike then, the silence was nearly unbearable, tugging at John’s thoughts and sending them scattering every time he caught Sherlock glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes. 

“So, the case,” he finally said, breaking the quiet. Sherlock looked up from watching his feet, his expression open and inquisitive, encouraging John to continue. He did, asking, “You have any ideas?”

“A few thoughts,” Sherlock replied, his hands deep in his pockets. “Maybe some good ones.”

“Oh? Care to share?” In spite of himself, John smiled, the expression tilting one corner of his mouth upward. Sherlock smiled back, looking relieved. 

“Certainly.” Sherlock’s tone was polished and polite, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. Looking at him, John was struck by the expressiveness of his face. Even when he seemed to present a flat affect, a mask, his eyes and the corners of his full lips gave him away. As he watched a breeze work its way through the trees on either side of the path, John wondered how many people actually bothered to try and see that side of Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“The case is interesting for two reasons,” Sherlock said, holding up two fingers. “First,” he dropped his middle finger toward his palm, “the thief only ever steals sentimental items. Photographs, letters, fridge magnets. Never anything financially valuable. And, second—”

“He’s done it before,” John interrupted, realization washing over him. Sherlock blinked, and John cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Sherlock smiled. “No, it’s...fine.” The smile widened briefly, and his eyes dropped to the ground, tentative pleasure in his expression. “You’re right. He’s done it before. Six months ago, there was a spate of break-ins. Always the same M.O.” His eyes narrowed. “The suspect was never caught, and the break-ins stopped.” 

“But you had a suspect, then?” 

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “I had my suspicions, but nothing really panned out. But this time…” his eyes glittered, something almost predatory lurking in the twist of his mouth. The sight of it made John shiver, though whether with trepidation or anticipation, he wasn’t sure.

“Well, maybe it’ll be different this time,” John said. Sherlock’s eyes flashed toward him, the darkness lifting as he smiled again. 

“Yes. I think it will.” 

They lapsed back into silence. This time, it was pleasant, the rough, uncertain edges of their companionship soothed by the conversation. John was finally beginning to feel relaxed, like he could broach what had happened between them in his kitchen. He took a breath as they rounded the bend before his property and froze. 

Parked beside the gate, the sun reflecting off the open sunroof, was a small red coupe. 

His pulse quickened at the sight of it and, even with the farmhouse still out of view, John knew what awaited him. “Shit,” he breathed, eyes closing tightly. He focused on inhaling, filling his lungs with fresh air and the smell of flowers, damp earth, and Sherlock’s shampoo as he stopped beside John.

“What is it?” 

John opened his eyes, fighting down an irrational sense of alarm. “Nothing good.” A heavy feeling sank over him, right down to his bones. It was swiftly followed by a sense of defeat.

Looking from him to the car, Sherlock’s brow furrowed. John could almost hear the gears turning, Sherlock’s thoughts flickering quicksilver through his shrewd eyes. “Should I go?” Sherlock asked, uncertainty colouring his tone. 

John hesitated, considering. Sherlock would have to walk back the way they came, some fifteen minutes down the road to the entrance of his own drive if he left John’s side now. John imagined pressing forward on his own. The thought held little temptation, knowing what waited for him. He also knew that, when they did reach John’s house, Sherlock would not linger if John asked him to go. 

Louder, nearly drowning out his other thoughts, his soldierly instincts screamed at him. They warned him not to go forward into battle without backup, and John felt inclined to listen.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. Steeling himself, hands tense at his sides, John drew himself to his full height and nodded. _Into battle_. “Just...be prepared.”

Sherlock’s brow creased. “For what?” 

“Nothing good,” John said, repeating his earlier words. Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, and he followed silently as John began walking forward. Gravel crunched underfoot, and the tremours in John’s hands increased until the fingers on his left were jerking against his palm. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the movement, but he didn’t say anything, seeming to respect John’s silence. 

When the house came into view, even though he was expecting her, the sight of the person standing in front of the stairs still sent John’s pulse skyrocketing. He must have made a sound, lips parting around a hard exhale, because she turned, the afternoon sun shooting gold through her short blonde hair. Her wide blue eyes flickered to Sherlock, appraising him before returning to John, locking on his face with sniper-like focus.

“Hello, John.” Her tone was cool and detached, a sharp contrast to the false warmth overlaying her greeting.

His left hand twitching where he had stuffed it into his pocket, John nodded. “Hello, Mary.” 

Her eyes moved between them and narrowed. “Who is your friend?” she asked, brows rising as she stared at Sherlock. To his credit, Sherlock met her hard question without balking, his own eyes slate-grey and hard as he held her gaze. 

John glanced at the man at his side, his left hand spasming violently in his pocket. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing emerged, his throat inexplicably dry. To his chagrin and relief, Sherlock came to his rescue.

“Neighbour,” he replied, his voice flat and almost pleasant. Turning toward John, his lips twisted in a strange smile as their eyes locked. “Thank you for your help today, John. I’ll see you later.” With a stiff nod to Mary, Sherlock spun on his heel and strode off in the direction of his farm. John watched until he disappeared into the trees and tall grass. As he wiped his suddenly damp hands off on his jeans, he turned back to Mary, waiting for him with narrowed eyes.

“So,” he began, clearing his throat around the awkward tightness in his chest. “Uh. Would you like to come inside?” He shrugged, raising his hands helplessly. “I’m not really sure why you’re here. Are you planning to stay long?”

Mary’s mouth pulled to the side in a smile that was closer to a grimace. “Just a quick visit, I think.” She fiddled with the strap of the purse over her shoulder. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Eyes focused just past her head, on the brambles, John nodded. “Sure. Must be important, though, if you couldn’t say it over the phone.” 

Mary’s face tensed. When she replied, her voice was soft. “Let’s go inside, John.”

John nodded stiffly. “Yeah, alright.” He strode forward, walking past her and mounting the creaky steps. As Mary followed, he could all too easily imagine the grimace on her face at the state of the old farmhouse. That was Mary, lover of the finer things, always wanting more. John shook the thoughts away and unlocked the door, pushing it open to let her enter before him. She did with a small nod, making herself at home at the kitchen table.

“Drink?” he asked, standing at the sink and looking out the window. If he squinted, John thought he could make out Sherlock’s house, a peek of dark wood through the tangled trees. It was impossible, of course, but it was strangely soothing, knowing Sherlock was just next door. He didn’t wait for Mary’s answer, just began filling the kettle and pulling mugs from the cupboard, letting the door close with more force than intended. 

As the hard sound of its banging faded into the tense air filling the kitchen, Mary appeared at his side. 

“John.” Her hand landed on his left shoulder. It was like a lightning bolt, sending adrenaline and a ghostly flash of pain through his body. Without meaning to, John jerked back. Mary stepped away, letting her hand fall to her side. “Sorry.”

John stared into the sink, hands planted on the counter. His breathing was loud and unsteady, and he nodded jerkily without looking at her. The kettle still sat in the basin, and he made no move to place it on the stove. Instead, left hand curling into a fist, he asked, “Why are you here?”

“Excuse me?” Mary sounded surprised, put off by his forwardness. Clearing his throat, John turned to her, his expression stiff.

“I asked you why you’re here, Mary. So, tell me. What was so important that you had to drive all the way here? I already signed the divorce papers, remember?” 

Mary’s face hardened, shuttering at his words. “That’s really not fair, John,” she protested. 

It made him furious, then immediately exhausted, his energy fading fast. “Is that what we’re doing now?” John asked. He watched Mary tilt her head in confusion, and added, “Talking about fairness?” His jaw tightened, hands curling hard around the edge of the counter. “I don’t think that’s a road you really want to go down, Mary.” 

Lips pursed, Mary shook her head. “You came back a different man, John.” At his silence, she sighed. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Raising his eyes to the window again, John laughed. It was a harsh sound, lacking any humour, flat and empty. “You didn’t even try to find out.”

The silence stretched out, broken only by the soft sound of Mary’s breathing and the ticking of the clock on the wall over the table. 

“Why are you here, Mary?” John said, repeating himself in a low voice. He looked up, watching as she picked at her nails. It was an old fidget, one he recognized as a sign of uncertainty. He narrowed his eyes, and she looked up at him.

“James called me.”

The words struck John in the chest, and his grip tightened on the counter. From the edge of his vision, he saw his knuckles had gone white. “Did he.” It wasn’t a question. 

Mary nodded slowly. “Yes.” Her face twisted, suddenly desperate. “He was worried about you, John. _I’m_ worried about you. He said…” she hesitated, and John’s eyes closed.

“Just say it,” he muttered, breathing deeply. He heard her sigh.

“He said you sounded like you weren’t doing well. That you were talking in fatalistic ways.”

John snorted. “‘Fatalistic ways,’” he repeated, eyes opening to stare at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

Mary’s gaze was hard on his face. “Do you still have your service weapon?”

Shock rippled through John’s body, and his grip actually slipped on the counter for a second before he backed up, his hip hitting the stove. “Excuse me? What kind of question is that?”

Mary fixed him with a stare. “I think you know what I’m asking, John.”

“Christ, Mary,” John snapped, his hands balling into fists. He pressed them against his thigh, breathing loudly through his nose. “I’m not going to fucking shoot myself.” 

“Why not?” Her words challenged him, harsh, cutting. “Tell me, John. Tell me why I should believe you. What’s here for you?” Mary waved a hand, indicating the meagre state of the kitchen, the small layout of the farmhouse. “Are you telling me you’re happy here? That you’ve found what you were looking for?” Scoffing, she shook her head. “I don’t even think you _know_ what you’re looking for, John.” Her face softened before she stepped forward, and she reached for him. John leaned away, pressing harder against the stove, and her face darkened as she dropped her hand. “I don’t think you know what you need.” 

John laughed incredulously, the sound bitter. “Oh, and _you_ do?” he asked, laughing again. This time, it emerged on a waver, as if he were seconds from breaking down. “You walked out on _me_ , Mary. _You_ did it!” He meant to say more, but Mary cut him off with a furious retort.

“You’re the one who left, John! You packed up your things and drove out here to...what? To play at being a _farmer?”_ Her voice was heavy with disdain, sneering the words. It made John’s blood boil.

“You asked me for a divorce!” he roared, his hands flying up into the air. The suddenness of it made Mary take a step back, her mouth opening wide with surprise. Her face had paled, but John was too worked up to stop now. “I was _broken_ , Mary! And you didn’t care. You didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to have to look after me, didn’t _care_. You handed me those papers, told me to sign them. What was I supposed to do after that? _Stay?”_ He laughed, vision blurring despite his anger. “I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted.” 

Mary’s face twisted. Her eyes glistened, her voice unsteady. “You came back different,” she said, the words choking out as a tear spilled over, snaking down her cheek. “You weren’t my husband anymore. You weren’t the John Watson I married.” She wiped the moisture away, shaking her head. “You changed.”

Her words and tears did nothing to appease the anger rising in John’s chest, the helpless, aching feeling of abandonment. Of betrayal. He pulled in a loud breath, tried to calm himself, and ended up shouting anyways. 

“Of _course_ I’m fucking different!” His left hand twitched, fingers curling in, arm shaking. John slammed the palm down hard on the counter, his own eyes wet with tears that threatened to spill over as well. “I saw good men die. I shot people. _I_ was bloody well _shot,_ Mary!” His voice faded, staring at his quivering hand until it curled into a desperate fist. “I don’t know why you never understood that.” 

“I still don’t,” Mary said quietly. The admission felt like a knife in his chest, and John laughed, the sound tight and strained by his struggle not to breakdown.

“I know.” Shaking his head, he raised his gaze to the window and blinked, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t work, and he sighed. “I know, Mary. I just wish you’d at least tried.” 

* * *

After Mary left, John felt unbalanced. Adrift. Lost at sea. Sinking into one of the kitchen chairs, he let his head drop into his hands. It felt heavy, too substantial to carry any longer. His shoulders shook, though the liquid swimming in his eyes never actually spilled over. It gathered on his eyelashes, making them clump and cling together, leaving John to wipe at them with his hands every time his vision blurred. 

By the time he managed to drag himself back to his feet, it was evening, the sun slipping below the horizon. Without the lights turned on in the kitchen, it was dark and atmospheric in the farmhouse, the glow of the sunset setting the windows alight with fiery hues of orange and yellow. 

As he stood on his porch, John watched the last vestiges of the day dissipate into velvety twilight. After the morning’s rain, the air was heavy and damp, a chill working its way through his jumper to dust goosebumps over his skin. Breathing the cold, biting scent of mud and wet earth into his lungs, John stayed out another hour, watching the stars wink as the sky darkened. 

When he began to shiver and rubbing his arms was no longer enough to warm his body, he went back inside. Beelining straight for the bathroom, John stripped his clothes on the way, letting them fall to the tiled floor before stepping into the shower. With the temperature turned to hot, he shuddered and quaked beneath the spray until his skin turned red and shiny, the heat seeping through his sore body. No matter how long he stood there, the searing water failed to warm the cold ache in his chest. John eventually turned his attention to shampooing and soaping, watching the suds swirl down the drain. 

He turned off the water and stood there for several minutes, absently focusing on the water as it trickled down to droplets against the porcelain, his thoughts miles away. Finally shaking himself back to reality, John towelled off and picked up his discarded clothing, padding on bare feet to the bedroom. Pausing only to slip on a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms, John climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. 

After staring into the darkness for an indeterminate amount of time, he both wished for sleep and hoped it wouldn’t find him. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but his head was full. Mary’s words raced through his thoughts, interwoven with meeting Mrs. Hudson, with how it felt to kiss Sherlock.

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, his hands curling tight around the edge of the comforter. Sherlock had kissed him. _He_ had kissed _Sherlock_. Neither of them had pulled away, neither had fled. If not for Greg’s interruption, John wondered how far it might have gone. How far he would have _liked_ it to have gone. Even now, alone in the dark with his thoughts, he still wasn’t sure.

The day had been busy, and the kiss felt like it had happened ages ago. Like it had belonged to another man, in another lifetime. 

Lifting a hand, John drifted his fingers over his lips, frowning. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about what had happened, but he didn’t think he was averse to it happening again. After the conversation with Mary and the shock of her appearing at his new home, it was hard to sort out his feelings into anything that resembled sanity. 

His phone began to buzz, jittering across the surface of the bedside table. It skittered toward the edge, and John reached out to grab it before it fell. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was Sherlock. John froze, caught between wanting to talk to him and his own indecision. Between wanting to explain things, and letting sleeping dogs lie.

In the end, he stared for so long that the call ended mid-vibrate, the screen going dark again. There was no voicemail. 

Mouth dry and bitter-tasting, John set the mobile back on the table, switching it to silent with a shaky hand. He just needed time. Just a little time to sort out his thoughts, to figure out what he wanted. Surely, Sherlock would understand. 

Rolling over, John drew the covers back to his chin and closed his eyes. He prayed for sleep. But the tension in his body was still present and humming despite the shower, and he knew it wouldn’t come.

* * *

The nightmares found him, as he knew they would. Even when it took him half the night to fall asleep, his eyes dragging open repeatedly, they still came. 

It started with the feeling of sand. It was everywhere—in his mouth, his eyelashes, caught in the tender spaces between gear and skin. It blurred through the air, a veritable storm that blinded and scoured the flesh from his bones, ate away until he was bare and shivering despite the dry heat. 

“You changed, John.”

The voice came from behind him, and he whirled, his eyes wide and wild. He expected to find Mary, to see her watching him with that empty look on her face, the one she’d worn ever since his first nightmares sent him screaming out of sleep. Instead, there was no one there. Just more sand, whipped into eddies by a burning wind. John spun in place, barely feeling it as the fine particulate in the air scoured away the final layer of his skin. 

“You don’t know what you need, John.” 

The words drifted past him, cupping his ear like the hand of a lover, searing where they touched against his skin. 

“Stop it!” he yelled, even though he was alone. Everywhere John looked, he was alone. Just him and the desert, endless, unfathomable, inescapable. Even the mountain ranges were gone, the terrain turned flat, stretching beneath the cruel sun. 

He was alone. He was alone and on his knees, and there was nothing but sand under his searching hands. No life, no body, no staring eyes and bloodied face. Just the sand and him, the desert and John Watson, the place where he lost himself. Neither heaven nor hell, just his own personal taste of purgatory.

The bullet hammered into him from behind, tearing through muscle and skin, chipping and splitting bone like a stake through soft earth. John screamed, clawed, fell face-first to the ground, but there was no sound, no one to hear him, no eardrums to reflect the desperate vibrations of his silent voice. 

His mouth was full of sand, and his hands were empty. 

* * *

John woke screaming, retching, tearing at the blankets tangled around his legs. His movements were wild and panicked, the sheets tripping him up when he tried to escape the bed. Finally managing, he lunged down the hallway, into the bathroom. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet just in time, gagging, his stomach clenching as he retched acid and bile into the bowl. When there was nothing left to bring up, his body vibrated with the pain of his stomach cramps, dry-heaving and gasping with the force of his reaction. 

John sat back at last, sweat running down his face, hair soaked and plastered to his head. He scraped his hands through the damp strands and rocked gently against the side of the tub, his legs drawn up to his chest, desperate to soothe himself. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed, fixed and staring at nothing. 

The dream rattled through his head, playing over and over despite the faint light of morning filtering through the window set high on the wall. Gradually, his rocking slowed. The shakes remained, tremours trailing through his body in rhythmic shudders.

Remembering the feeling of isolation, of how alone he had been, John covered his face. His lips pressed together into a thin, tight line as he tried to hold back the sob rising in his throat. 

The dreams were never like that, with John on his own. There had always been others, those he’d failed to save, those he had missed, had let down. The silence of it had felt severe, reinforcing his isolation. 

_If a man is shot in the desert and no one is around to hear it, does he still matter?_

With his eyes tightly shut, John shuddered again, a helpless, jagged laugh escaping his mouth. He remained where he was for a while longer, until the natural light illuminating the bathroom softened and brightened, turning white instead of foggy yellow. Picking himself up off the floor, John moved through the house in a stupor. He tried making tea, but it tasted like ash on his tongue. 

Looking out the window at a wind-swept yard, he blinked sluggishly. Today was his first day at the clinic, a half-day shift from noon to five. John’s hands shook hard enough that he set the mug in the sink for fear of dropping it. 

He felt the salt on his skin, the dried sweat and remnants of terror, and went to take another shower. 

* * *

John wandered his property, a slice of toast sitting heavily in his stomach. The wind had died down, and his feet carried him around the perimeter without direction. His movements were slow and aimless, letting his unbalanced mind take him where it wanted. 

When he reached the point where his land bordered Sherlock’s, John heard a low, plaintive sound humming through the air, buoyed by a faint breeze. It drifted through his hair, tousling the strands, and pulled the melodic music into his yard. Without conscious thought, John found himself following the sound, picking his way around brambles and twisted tree roots. As always, Sherlock’s land was wild, riotous, a stark reflection of the man himself. Despite its wilderness, John was comforted by the unkempt life growing uninterrupted around him.

He walked through a copse of tangled fruit trees. Their boughs were bright and fragrant with blooming flowers, leading him into a cleared space. The sound of bees filled the air. But, instead of warring with the violin music or drowning it out, the buzz of the insects seemed to meld with the tune. To merge and contrast, amplifying the sweetly soft cadence of the melody. As John cleared the treeline, he stopped to take in the sight before him. 

The clearing was dotted with white boxes and more fruit trees, flowering shrubs and tall grass flattened around the hives. Bees swirled in the air. They appeared and disappeared from inside the containers, hovering in clouds, zipping into the distance in search of flowers. 

Sherlock stood unperturbed in the middle, a violin perched beneath his chin. He hardly moved, and when he did, it was to draw the bow over the strings, to set the tips of his long fingers on the frets. Now and then, he swayed or turned slowly, his movements and presence gentle, careful not to disturb the insects clouding the air. 

Transfixed, John watched as Sherlock turned in his direction, the bow drawing a soft, resonant note from the instrument in his hands. His eyes were closed, his expression serene, the lines of his body softened by an obvious equanimity that John envied. Black spots moved over Sherlock’s face in aimless, wandering trails. Squinting, John realized they were bees, the insects crawling over Sherlock’s nose, along the sharp line of his jaw, down his neck and over his shirt. Some even clung to his hands, unperturbed by the movements of his playing, one adventurous enough to meander onto the polished wood of the violin itself. 

Enchanted by the scene, John realized he was holding his breath, and he let it out in a low whoosh. The sound was carried away from him as the direction of the breeze shifted. It reached Sherlock where he swayed slowly in time with his playing. Something flickered over his face, a brief flash of surprise before his eyes opened. They landed on John, widened slightly, and a slow smile spread across his lips. 

Despite the slow, dragging feeling in his body from a lack of sleep and another night spent at the mercy of his nightmares, John returned the smile. It curved his mouth, and he felt some of the tension lingering in his shoulders start to release. Not all the way, but enough that John finally felt like he could take a full breath. A deep inhale brought the taste of flowering trees and wet grass into his lungs. 

“Morning, John.” 

Sherlock’s voice drew John out of his body, back into the present moment. Blinking, he realized Sherlock had set aside his violin, shed the bees from his figure, and approached. Even with his efforts, a few insects remained, and John watched a particularly industrious one climb up Sherlock’s arm, clinging to the creased fabric of his shirt. 

“Morning.” John swallowed, suddenly feeling the heaviness of what they had shared between them. The kiss, Mary, it all came rushing back, and Sherlock stiffened as if he could feel it, too. To John, it seemed that the air went taut and thick, and he found himself once more struggling to breathe. Rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw and realizing he needed a shave, he opened his mouth to speak. When nothing came out, he frowned. Distantly, John remembered missing Sherlock’s call the night before and wondered what Sherlock had wanted to say. “Sorry I missed your call,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t...it wasn’t a good time.” 

Sherlock nodded, his expression thoughtful. A bee buzzed past his face, and he blinked slowly, waving a gentle hand to send it onward. The one on his arm was still working toward his shoulder, unnoticed and unperturbed. John’s eyes fixed on its little black and yellow body as Sherlock began to speak. His voice was low and measured, flat with an odd, stiff politeness.

“John, about what happened yesterday…” the words trailed off, and John tore his eyes away from the climbing insect to look at Sherlock. His expression seemed pained, his lips twisted into a weird grimace that made him appear ill. John frowned, a sense of foreboding sinking into his stomach like a stone.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, watching Sherlock’s face. “I wanted to talk to you about that, too.”

Sherlock nodded. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him as he rocked on his heels, and John saw that he was rubbing his thumb against the back of one. Over and over it went, a fidgeting movement that brought to mind the image of Mary picking at her nails. John’s stomach sank a little lower as Sherlock spoke again.

“I wanted to apologize.” His face was closed off, his expression flat. Despite greeting John with a smile, Sherlock now wouldn’t meet his eyes, his gaze directed somewhere off to the left. John glanced that way and saw nothing, his attention drawn back as Sherlock went on. “If I in any way pressured you into something, or overstepped a boundary...” His hands separated, fluttered aimlessly in the air for a second before settling, arms crossing over his chest. The bee on his bicep began to crawl onto his finger, trundling toward the sharp bones of his wrist. 

Sherlock took a breath, and John stared at his face, the air a physical presence against his skin. His chest felt like it might split open. 

“I understand if you do not want a repeat of what happened.” Finally noticing his little stowaway, Sherlock raised a hand and looked at the insect. His brow furrowed, and he spoke with his eyes fastened on the bee as if speaking to it and it alone. “I hope you know that I deeply value your friendship, and do not wish to jeopardize it in any way.” His gaze rose, fixing on John. The normally kaleidoscopic brilliance of his stare appeared faded, long, spidery lashes framing his eyes in a dark shadow. He looked uncertain, awkward, almost painfully vulnerable with his face somehow simultaneously closed off and wide open.

Staring at him, John couldn’t breathe. 

Sherlock was giving him an out. Checking in on how John felt about what had transpired between them, and providing him with the possibility for escape. Somehow, Sherlock thought he had done something wrong. 

Warmth filled John’s chest. The feeling pressed against his ribcage, and he managed to suck in a shuddering breath. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds. Once he could, John only managed a soft, strained _Sherlock_ before his voice failed and he shook his head. 

Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “You were in a vulnerable state when I…” his brow creased again, watching the bee finally take flight and leave his hand. Shaking his head, Sherlock wet his lips. “You weren’t yourself.” He looked John in the eye, his face hardening. The sight of it, of Sherlock retreating from him, made John ache. “If I took advantage of that, know that it was not my intention.” Hands curling, fingers bending toward his palms, Sherlock sighed. “I’m sorry, John.” 

John blinked, letting the words sink in. The warmth was quickly seeping out of his chest, replaced by a heavy, bitter cold. He wanted to say something, to deny it, to tell Sherlock he had done nothing wrong. That John had wanted it, the kissing, wanted it just as much as Sherlock had seemed to. That John hadn’t taken his call last night because he had to be sure, just needed time to think, that he thought Sherlock would understand. 

But maybe Sherlock didn’t understand. Or, maybe he did, and he was giving himself an out, too, not just John. 

The thought did something strange, twisting John’s insides into knots and making it even harder to breathe. The words burned in his throat, the denials and explanations, but none of them managed to make it past his numb lips. Instead, John pasted a pained smile on his face. He felt like he was collapsing in on himself. 

“Right,” he said, his voice choking out. He cleared his throat, forcing the smile to stay on his lips. “Sure. No, it’s all good. Um, don’t…” John took a step back, pausing to look behind him to make sure the ground was free of tripping hazards. When he looked back up, Sherlock had taken a step forward, and John held up a hand to stop him. “No, it’s—don’t worry about it. It’s fine, it’s all fine.” He laughed. The sound of it was strangled, a weird barking noise that set his teeth on edge. “It’s all fine,” he said again. “I’m sorry, too.” The smile was beginning to hurt, tugging the muscles of his mouth into an uncomfortable stretch. But John held it, still backing away, moving beneath the shade of the fruit trees. 

Rooted where he had stopped, Sherlock blinked. His lips parted, his expression dismayed. “John?” His voice was soft, questioning and as vulnerable as his face had appeared earlier. “John, I didn’t mean—”

“Ah, it’s no problem,” John interrupted. “All good, no worries. I, uh, I just remembered, I have to go do...a thing.” He began to turn away, nearly tripping over his feet, rushing to hide his face, unable to keep the smile from falling into a twisted grimace.

“John.”

“I’ve got a shift at the clinic today,” John called over his shoulder, shoving his hands into his pockets. The action set him off balance, and he nearly staggered around a root in his haste to escape. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later, Sherlock.” He was moving faster now, finally steady on his feet, rushing to escape before Sherlock said something that would make it impossible to leave.

“John!” 

The sound of his name made him falter, breath catching, but John pushed onward, navigating the wild obstacle course of the trees and uneven terrain with single-minded tenacity. 

When he emerged back on his own property, his heartbeat was loud in his ears. It was like the beat of a drum, and John marched to the rhythm, falling automatically into a pace ingrained into him by his military training. He didn’t stop until he reached the porch, and only once he was inside the farmhouse did he allow himself to falter. His back set against the door, John sank down to the floor and shoved his head between his knees. His breath came in loud, wild gasps. He closed his eyes, struggling between trying to stop the panic attack and letting himself fall into it.

In the end, John let it sweep him away. He was tired, too exhausted to fight another second. The anxiety and panic washed over him, and he lost seconds, minutes, ages to the rush of blood in his ears, the thud of his heart in his chest. Vision blurring, John pressed his palms against his eyes, teeth gritted, body caught by the feedback loop he was stuck in.

When it finally released him, he slumped against the door, head falling back to the aged wood. Opening his eyes, his breaths long and slow and shaky, John stared through the kitchen, past the living room, at the sliding glass door that looked out onto the rear of the property. He stayed there for a while, just watching the wind rustling in the trees and the sun moving over the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Someone You Loved](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGGo8LFmbjs) \- Lewis Capaldi  
> [Leave the War with Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OM9wxNvPgTo) \- London Grammar  
> [Love is in the Small Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4mAZg2dlnc) \- flora cash


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Howlin' for You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCZI2C-tWzM) \- The Black Keys  
> [Restless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyiiWxrfegM) \- Cold War Kids  
> [Night so Long](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42KuBEXaXKw) \- HAIM

In the wake of the sudden and frightening force of his panic attack, John managed to pull himself together and make it to his first shift at the clinic. He walked inside, expecting a full waiting room. Instead, he saw a bored receptionist flipping absently through a book, his face a mask of boredom, and two people seated in the small space. John blinked and nodded at the receptionist before passing through the door to the exam rooms.

Mike was waiting for him in the staff break room. It seemed to double as an impromptu storage space. There were IV stands and boxes of gloves stuffed in among a microwave, a small table and chair set, and a mini-fridge. As they settled at the table, Mike looked John over with narrowed eyes. “How are you doing, John? Haven’t seen you in a bit.” 

“Yeah, good,” John said, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. “I’m good.” He knew he looked like shit, with the dark shadows under his eyes, his skin pale, peaky. Even so, he fixed a tight smile on his face, ignoring Mike’s uncertain expression. “Looking forward to my first shift.”

Mike smiled back hesitantly. To John’s relief, he didn’t press the subject, instead standing and leading the way to the exam rooms. 

“We only have the three, but we don’t usually get busy enough for it to be an issue,” he explained, letting John poke his head through each door to take in the layout of the rooms. They were similar, with a few differences in placement of desks and exam tables, but more or less identical. The brief tour finished, Mike led John back to the front.

“This is Billy,” he said, addressing the young man behind the reception desk. “He temps here sometimes. Takes calls, inputs appointments, stuff like that.

Billy looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Ah, hey. Bill Wiggins. Call me Billy, though, everyone else does. You must be Doctor Watson,” he said in a rush, standing to shake John’s hand. His accent was a mix of brazen Cockney and blurred Central, his bright eyes flicking over John as their hands clasped. Dropping his arm back to his side, John nodded.

“I’ve met your great-aunt, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. At Billy’s pleased but curious look, John added, “I came by when she had that break-in.” Billy’s face lit up, and John resisted the urge to groan as the conversation went in a direction he wasn’t really prepared for.

“Oh, so you know Sherlock, then!” 

John nodded, suppressing a wince. “Ah, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck and tried out a laugh. It sounded hollow, even to him. “We’re neighbours, actually.” 

“Fantastic,” Billy replied, his smile wide and admiring. “He’s brilliant, he is.” 

“Yeah,” John said softly, his own smile strained. “He sure is.” 

* * *

The hours crawled by, the day dragging. Frustratingly, the very thing John had hoped to find by moving here—peace, quiet, solitude, a slower pace of life—was grating on his nerves. He saw a total of three patients in the first half of his five-hour shift. After prescribing allergy meds, an anti-inflammatory, and diagnosing a tonsil infection, John stood staring into an empty waiting room, trying not to fidget with his need for distraction.

With two hours still left in his shift, he felt like he might go mad. 

Left with nothing else to do, he tidied the exam room, washed his hands, and headed for the breakroom. There was a sandwich in the fridge that he’d packed himself, and John took it out only to sit at the table and stare at it. 

“God, I’m _starving.”_

The voice made him look up as a woman with light brown hair entered, making a beeline for the fridge. She turned toward him with a tupperware container in one hand, offering a smile. 

“You must be Doctor Watson.” She took the seat across from him, reaching out to shake his hand. John nodded, accepting the handshake. “I’m Sarah,” she went on, opening the container to reveal a salad. “Sarah Sawyer.” Drizzling dressing over the greens, she smiled at him again. “Just call me Sarah.”

“Thanks, Sarah.” John fiddled with the plastic wrap on his sandwich. “Better call me John, then.” 

Sarah’s smile widened, and she swallowed a mouthful of salad. “Will do.” She crooked an eyebrow, looking him over. “Mike tells me you used to be a soldier. An army doctor, he said.” Something almost coy filtered through her voice, her eyes lingering on his arms and shoulders. 

John forced a smile. He seemed to be doing that a lot today. “Yeah, that’s right. Field surgeon, actually.” At a loss for what else to say, he took a bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly. When nothing more was forthcoming, Sarah spoke again. 

“You’re a bit over-qualified, aren’t you?” She chuckled, the sound light and friendly. John flashed his teeth quickly in an attempt at levity. The single bite of sandwich felt like a rock in his stomach. 

“Maybe a bit.” His left hand curled against his thigh. “Kind of grateful for the quiet, to be honest.”

Sarah nodded and poked at her salad, aiming her fork at a cherry tomato. “Mm, I bet.” She popped the tomato in her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and tilted her head. “Doesn’t get much quieter than here. Hopefully, you won’t get bored.”

Looking at the table, John laughed quietly, a nervous little sound that barely made it past his lips. “Boredom is fine with me.”

“As long as it doesn’t drive you away,” Sarah quipped. When John looked up, she tipped a wink, her smile decidedly flirtatious. He returned it as best he could before excusing himself.

Covertly dropping his unfinished sandwich in the garbage on his way out of the breakroom, John ducked into one of the empty exam rooms. He sat on a wheeled stool and stared at the glazed window, exhaling slowly. 

Sarah had been nice enough, but John had left the interaction feeling uncomfortable, shaken. She had been flirting with him, and it wasn’t an ego boost for him to admit it. She wasn't unattractive, very much the kind of woman he liked: smart, confident, a little shorter than him, a warm smile. Maybe, in another time, another life, John would have flirted back. But, between Mary’s visit and Sherlock’s brush off, he felt raw. Unbalanced. Like he wasn’t enough to give. 

Clasping his hands together, he waited for the day to end.

* * *

Back at home, John still felt restless. Even though it was evening, he had no appetite, unable to stomach much past the bite of sandwich and the toast at breakfast. Filled with pent-up energy, afraid it might shift into another panic attack, he channelled the excess into yard work. 

Axe in hand, John hacked at a gnarled stump that was too big to be torn up. He lost himself in the steady rise and fall of the blade. The flex of his arms, the building twinge in his injured shoulder, the sound of his breathing. He listened as air filled his lungs and rushed from his mouth, timing the swings with each inhale and exhale. The blade met the rotting wood in a rhythmic _thunk_ , and his thoughts faded into a soundless background hum.

When he finally stopped, it was to groan and straighten his back. Taking stock of his body, John found that his shoulder had begun to spasm, his spine was aching, and his hands were raw. He looked out over the yard with pursed lips, then down at his hands, at the fresh blisters oozing clear fluid. John wiped his palms on his pants, not caring about the grit and grime he rubbed into the broken skin.

He left the head of the axe buried deep in the soft wood, barely a dent made in the trunk. Crossing the yard, he staggered, struggling up the stairs as the evening faded into the night. John dropped onto the porch, hardly bothering to soften his landing. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his throbbing shoulder, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

He had overdone it by a long shot, and his body was heavy with exhaustion as he watched the sunset shift into starlight. Hands resting palm-up on his knees, his fingers flexed, pulling at the blistered skin. 

The new moon rose overhead, casting silver shadows over the darkened yard, and John finally went inside. He crossed the kitchen, digging through a drawer for plasters. Instead, a small jar rolled into view. Blinking slowly, John picked up the little container, staring at it. 

It was one of Sherlock’s gifts, the same concoction he had spread over John’s hands the day they built the fence together. With a pang, John remembered the soft gloves, unused thanks to his own lack of forethought. He set the cream on the kitchen table and went for a shower. 

After carefully picking dirt and bits of wood pulp out of his blisters and scrubbing himself clean, John spread a liberal layer of cream over the tender skin. He let the salve soak in while he sat in the sitting room, staring blankly at something on the tv. Too lost in his thoughts to follow the show’s plotline, John turned his conversations with Mary and Sherlock over in his head.

The longer John sat and thought, the more agitated he became. Something tugged at him, hovering just out of reach, taunting, haunting. Frowning, John rose to his feet and went out onto the back porch. He leaned against the railing, mindful of his hands, and stared out at the shadowed yard. It was almost silent, save for the faint sound of crickets and the light breeze, making the trees creak in the gloom.

With his eyes fixed on the dark sky, a coherent thought surfaced at last, pushing past the other rumbling noise cluttering his head. 

James had been the one to call Mary. John had taken a chance with that phone call, reaching out when he would have preferred not to. When he was feeling desperate, had nowhere else to turn. 

Once, John thought he had Sherlock, but now it seemed he didn’t have him either. All that left was James, and James had ratted him out. To Mary. He had sent her to John’s door, armed with false concern and guilt.

Forgetting the state of his hands, John curled his fingers around the porch railing. He ignored the brutal sting, the pain shooting across the abused skin and up his shoulder, and bared his teeth at the darkness.

What right did James have, telling Mary anything about John? What about Harry? Couldn’t he have called her? What about _John?_ How about _anyone_ but the ex-wife who had tossed him aside like so much unwanted baggage?

The more John thought about it, the more the betrayal festered. Worked under his skin and made his hands clench. Before he could stop to think about it, he dug his phone out of his pocket, selected James’ number in the address book, and pressed the mobile to his ear. The line rang out, on and on, so long that he doubted there would be an answer. But the connection never clicked over to an answering machine, and John was shaking too hard to hang up. He waited, staring out into the dark yard. 

James finally picked up. “John?” His voice was heavy with exhaustion, and John froze. The breath caught in his lungs shivered out through his teeth as his mind went blank. James spoke again, his voice softening. “John? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” John said gruffly. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I am, I’m here.”

A brief silence stretched out. James broke it first, his words rushing through the phone. “Look, John, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have called Mary, but I didn’t know what else to do.” He sounded desperate, apologetic but firm, rooted in his belief that he had done the right thing. It made John’s stomach churn, and his upper lip curled back.

“You had no right,” he whispered, his voice breaking. James sighed, the sound loud in John’s ear.

“You sounded... John, you sounded like you might do something rash.”

John barked out a laugh, his hand shaking around the phone. “So you called _Mary?”_ He felt incredulous, unsteady, blindsided. “How did you think that would help me, James? Hmm? What did you think she would do?”

“John, I didn’t—”

“No, James, you didn’t,” John interrupted angrily. “That’s the problem, you _didn’t_ think. What about Harry? You could have called Harry.”

Now it was James who laughed. _“Harriet?_ Really, John? I should have called your sister?” James’ tone turned biting. “Your alcoholic sister who, if we’re going down this road, really isn’t that different from you in terms of barely hanging on. Jesus, John. If she’s not at the bottom of a bottle, she’s wishing she was.” Another hard laugh, this one flat and harsh. “I’m sorry John, but Mary was the only person I could think of, and I’m not going to apologize for calling her.”

“Fuck you,” John hissed. Silence met the curse, and he barrelled on, his throat raw with anger. “Fuck you, James. Like _you_ know what _I_ need. You aren’t here, you have _no_ idea.” His breathing turned shallow, reducing the words to a furious whisper. “Mary came here, all the fucking way out here, to tell me _what I need.”_ A strangled, choking sound slipping past his lips, and John wasn’t sure if it was a sob or a laugh. “I know I wasn’t in my best mind when I called you, but I _do_ know what I need, and it wasn’t fucking that. It wasn’t _her_ I needed.” 

“John…” James’ breathing was loud on the other end of the line. John waited, his fingers tensing and releasing, the screen of the phone jittering against the side of his head. Finally, James whispered, “I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re fucking right, you are,” John breathed. His movements jerky, he ended the call and dropped the phone onto the railing. His head followed, cheek pillowed on the hard, rough wood. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the night, waiting for it to soothe him. 

When it didn’t, John’s left hand curled into a fist. He lunged toward one of the support pillars, striking out at the old, faded varnish. It hurt like hell, the wood sinking jagged splinters into his knuckles. Agony flashed through his hand, and John wondered if he had broken it. When he flexed his fingers and the pain subsided, he struck out again, then again, his teeth clenched and bared until his knuckles were split and bleeding. 

Blood dripped to the porch beneath his feet as John breathed deeply, chest heaving with the force of his distress. Finally, slowly, he wrapped his hand in the hem of his shirt and went back inside.

* * *

He didn’t see Sherlock for the next few days, and John missed him more than he would have expected. The memory of their last conversation followed John through the rest of the week, mixing with the words shared between him and James. It blurred into a mess in his head, shattering any possibility for coherent thoughts.

The nightmares were getting worse. Night after night, John woke with his pulse in the hundreds, grasping desperately at the dark before realizing he was alone. He had begun to avoid sleep, drinking coffee until caffeine shakes replaced the PTSD tremour in his hands. But John inevitably dropped off, and the dreams were always waiting for him.

If he had been lonely before, it was nothing to how he felt now. Outside of a few short shifts at the clinic and interactions with near-strangers at the store, John was on his own. He ran into Mrs. Hudson once, and she took the time to pat his cheek, telling him he looked like he needed a proper meal. When she offered to have him over for dinner, John just smiled and nodded, knowing he wouldn’t take her up on it. 

He knew, if he accepted the offer, it meant possibly seeing Sherlock, and John couldn’t handle that right now. Sherlock had made it painfully clear how he felt about what had happened between them, and John meant to respect Sherlock’s decision. Sherlock said John’s friendship meant something to him, that it was important, but his actions said otherwise. After four days without contact, John was forced to understand Sherlock had only said those things to be polite. John appreciated the effort in a hurt, abstract way. 

His distraught thoughts blended with his tranquil memories of Sherlock, melding into something bittersweet and unattainable. John remembered the way Sherlock had smiled at him, violin perched under his chin with bees crawling over his face and neck. He compared how it felt to kiss him, Sherlock’s lips gentle, tender, tentative, with the radio silence currently eating away at him.

John still remembered what Sherlock’s tongue tasted like, and it threatened to drive him mad. 

He tried to stay busy. His sleep suffered, nights either spent wide awake or tossing and turning, waking from nightmares with sweat on his skin and terror in his thoughts. When the dreams became too much to handle, eyes wide with too much coffee, John went out into the yard. Day or night, he hacked, dug, and cleared away debris until his legs shook. He only stopped when he could no longer lift his arms, his shoulder locked up and throbbing.

The yard work wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t a remedy. It was beginning to whittle away what little sanity John had left, but the slow carving of the land was preferable to listening to the tumultuous thoughts in his head. 

When he turned to his work at the clinic, it was too sporadic, too slow, and John began to struggle to find any kind of excitement in the job. As the days passed, he began to wonder if he should leave. If he should move back to London or try his luck elsewhere. 

The idea didn’t hold much appeal, but neither did letting himself just fade away in this small town, forgotten and cast aside.

As he began to slip further away, deeper into the dark yawning inside him, someone reminded John that he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

Filling a morning shift at the clinic, John trudged to the exam room. He was exhausted, worn down, struggling to see the point in anything. His feet dragged, and he barely raised his head when he picked up the patient file tucked into the hard plastic bin attached to the door. Knocking, John waited for confirmation to enter and stepped inside.

“What can I do for you today, Mister—” the words died in his throat at the sight of Greg Lestrade, sitting in one of the chairs with a magazine open in his lap. He looked up at the sound of John's voice.

“Oh, John, hey. Didn’t know you were working today.” 

John nodded, clearing his throat. “Ah, yeah. I am.” He frowned, looking the other man over. “What brings you in?”

“Right.” Greg set the magazine aside and stood, pushing his sleeve up as he went. With the clothing out of the way, John saw a thick tea towel wrapped around the officer’s hand. The pale blue material was stained red with blood, and John winced at the sight of it.

“What did you do?” He gestured for Greg to take a seat on the examination table. After carefully shrugging out of his coat, Greg hopped up onto the edge, laughing quietly at himself.

“Something stupid,” he admitted. “Stuck my hand in a broken window.”

John winced again. “Sure sounds stupid.” Dragging his stool over, he perched on the seat and began slowly unwrapping the tea towel. “Why’d you go and do a thing like that?”

Greg snorted. “Because Sherlock insisted there was some kind of evidence on the jagged glass, and I, like a total moron, didn’t stop to think about what would happen before I stuck my hand in.”

“Ah,” John said quietly. His back stiffened at the mention of Sherlock, and he breathed out through his nose, trying to ease the tension from his body before Greg noticed. 

“Yup, real genius, me.” Greg gritted his teeth as John finished unwinding the towel, the fabric stuck to the edges of the wound with tacky, half-dried blood. “Guess this is why you weren’t there, hey?”

Looking up from the gash, John blinked. “What?”

Greg nodded at the exam room. “You weren’t at the break-in with Sherlock because you were here.” 

John frowned, his eyes dropping back to the cut. He pulled on a pair of gloves, gathered some supplies, and began gently dabbing at the edges with a cleaning wipe as he decided what to say. He considered agreeing, letting Greg think what he wanted. But then John was speaking, and it was too late.

“Ah, no, not exactly.” He cleared his throat, tilting his head in sympathy when Greg flinched, the wipe brushing tender flesh. “Sorry. It’s a bit of a sting.” John dropped the red-stained wipe into the tray and opened another. “I didn’t know there had been another break-in.” He began cleaning the wound again, avoiding Greg’s eyes. “I haven’t actually talked to Sherlock in a while.”

“Oh.” Greg was quiet for a long moment. He let John finish his work, watching him carefully pick a few tiny slivers of glass out of the skin with the fine edges of his tweezers. After John turned away to dispose of the wipes and glass, returning to inject a numbing agent into the skin, Greg asked, “Did something happen?”

Armed with a needle and thread, John kept his face carefully blank, trying not to give anything away. “Why do you ask?” His left hand shook violently, the tic unexpected, and John waited until it stopped before he threaded the needle. If Greg felt uneasy with the display, he didn’t say so. Instead, he sighed.

“Well, I don’t know. Just…” Greg waved his uninjured hand, seeming to search for the right words. “That day, when Sherlock was at your place.” John looked up, and he clarified, “When Mrs. Hudson had the break-in.” John nodded and focused on stitching up the wound as Greg continued. “It just seemed like something happened. Uh. You know.” He coughed, suddenly flustered. “Like you guys had...a moment.” 

John raised an eyebrow, glancing up from his work. “A moment?”

Greg shrugged. “I was being delicate. It looked like you’d snogged each other bloody senseless, and were a few seconds from taking it into the bedroom. Ah, you know what I mean,” he added because John’s face had gone red, the flush rising up to the tips of his ears. “Don’t look like that. I’m married to his brother, remember? I know how tempting a Holmes can be.” He tipped a wink as John’s blush only deepened. Greg patted him lightly on the shoulder with an apologetic smile. “Just...I’m sorry it didn’t work out, if that was the case.”

John coughed, his skin feeling hot and tight. “Yeah, well, I guess Sherlock wasn’t into it. So, you’re probably wrong.” 

One of Greg’s brows rose. “Wait, are you telling me _he_ called it off?” John was still stitching the wound closed, and Greg tried to wave him off. “Nevermind my hand, I wanna hear what happened.”

Shooting him a look, John couldn’t resist a soft laugh. “I’m almost done, hang on. And I can’t take all day. This is a clinic, not a coffee shop.”

Greg shook the words off. “The waiting room is bloody empty. Doctor Sawyer was playing games on her phone, and that Billy kid was watching tv. Don’t give me that.” But he waited for John to finish the last few stitches, flexing his hand appreciatively once he was done. “Nice work.”

“Thanks,” John said drily, covering the closed wound with a large plaster. “Keep it dry, don’t pick. They can probably come out in a week or so, but if it still feels tender, give it a bit longer.”

“Yessir.” Greg shrugged his coat back on, casting a wary glance at the tea towel. “You think the lady I took this from is gonna want it back?”

“Yeah, no, that’s going in the biohazard bin,” John said, dropping it into the receptacle. He paused in his clean up, sensing Greg’s hovering. Turning on his stool, John gave him his full attention. Greg cleared his throat as if startled to have it, fidgeting with the plaster until John swatted at him. 

“Okay, look, John,” he began, words starting off hesitant and firming as he went on. “I haven’t known you very long, but I’ve known Sherlock for years. Hell, it’s thanks to him that I met Mycroft at all.” Remembering their encounter, John pulled a face. Greg offered a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I heard about your conversation. Sorry, he can be a bit of a tosser sometimes.” He sighed. “But Sherlock...well, my life would be very different, if not for him. So I kind of owe him. Also, he would probably kill me if he knew I’d talked to you, and that makes it worth it.” Greg’s lips twitched up at the corners before his face grew serious again. “Sherlock isn’t what you’d call _good_ with emotions. I swear he’d be a sociopath if he could be. Pretty sure he’s called himself that a few times.” Shaking his head, Greg waved his own words away. “Anyways, all I’m saying is...Sherlock is a bloody genius, but he’s a right idiot about emotional stuff. And maybe he didn’t really know how to say it, but John…” He fixed John with a hard look, demanding his full attention. 

John made sure to give it, and Greg went on with a sigh and another slow shake of his head.

“I know what I saw that day, John. I saw Sherlock’s face, and I saw how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t looking.” Greg frowned, spreading his hands and wincing when the gesture pulled the stitches. “I have no idea what he said to make you think he wasn’t interested, but I don’t believe for a _second_ that was his intention.” Sitting back, Greg smiled slightly, his expression amused. “I’ve only ever seen that look on Sherlock’s face three times.”

John dumped bloody tissues and wipes into the biohazard bin before looking back at Greg, his brow furrowed. “And when was that?”

Greg’s mouth tilted. “Well, the first was the time he solved his first case. And the second was when he took up beekeeping.” His expression gentled, and John swallowed reflexively. “Wanna know the third?”

John squinted, bracing himself. “What?”

Hands settled on his knees, his eyes earnest, Greg said, “When he looks at you.”

* * *

Greg’s words nagged at John for the remainder of his shift. They hummed through his head when he picked up food at the store and kept pace with him as he walked home. They filled the small kitchen while he made an early dinner and sat in one of the empty chairs as he ate three mouthfuls before giving up.

John’s head was full, with Greg’s words and his own swirling thoughts. He wanted to believe Greg, wanted him to be right. 

Images flickered through his mind, snippets of time spent with Sherlock. Their first meeting, Sherlock rubbing cream over the raw skin of his palms, the smiles they shared like there was some unspoken secret between them. The kiss, Sherlock’s lips soft and tentative against John’s. The imagery blended with Greg’s words, with Mrs. Hudson’s comment.

_I saw how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t looking._

_And what I see is Sherlock watching you._

Even with his feelings of abandonment colouring his perceptions, John thought he could see what they meant. He kept flashing back to the sound of violin playing and buzzing bees, to the way Sherlock’s expression changed from serene to joyous at the sight of John. 

But, sitting in his silent kitchen, John wondered if he had been reading too much into things. Insecurity sat heavily on his chest, making him question every smile, every word, every interaction. All that remained was the kiss, its reality indisputable. Sherlock had kissed _him_ first. Hadn’t he? Even when his thoughts turned hazy by doubt, John was certain. Sherlock had made the first move, only to turn John down afterward. Sherlock had put John at arm’s length and avoided him for days, leaving John to feel the weight of his silence. 

John wondered what had changed between them to make Sherlock withdraw. No matter how he looked at the situation, he couldn’t pin it down.

A small, ugly thought arose in his mind, briefly drowning out the ruminative reflections. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, John wondered if it wasn’t Sherlock who had changed, but _him_. If he was responsible for the misunderstanding. John had been the one to walk away, to ignore Sherlock yelling his name. He hadn’t even picked up the phone when Sherlock called, assuming Sherlock would understand, despite no communication on John’s part. 

John raked his fingers through his hair, stunned. How had he been so stupid? Was he really so self-involved? Was he really so trapped inside his own mind, so blindsided by his trauma, that he had forgotten how to communicate his needs and wants?

James’ words echoed in his head. _Don’t be afraid to reach out._

Instead of trying, instead of staying to talk things out with Sherlock, John had fled. Maybe Mary had been right, and John was the one who had left. He might not have been the first to physically leave the marriage—Mary had been sleeping with someone else well before he was shot—but maybe he had been the first to run, all the way to Afghanistan. Looking back over his life, John wondered when he had started running in the first place. He couldn’t tell, and he wondered if he would ever stop. 

He felt sick. His eyes roved over the interior of the farmhouse until they landed on his phone. It sat on the kitchen counter, mocking him with its silence. John imagined picking it up, calling Sherlock. Asking him to come over, to talk. He wondered what might happen if he apologized and explained how much of an idiot he was. Would Sherlock forgive him? Would he even hear John out? Was he even angry, or hurt? Had he moved on already?

A different thought occurred to him, bringing trepidation with it. Maybe John had never meant as much to Sherlock as he’d thought. Maybe Greg and Mrs. Hudson were both wrong. Maybe they all hoped for more than was actually there.

In the end, John was too much of a coward to pick up the phone, and he went outside instead. He trimmed branches from overgrown apple trees until his hands seized up, and the clippers fell from his numb fingers. 

In the end, he was still his own worst enemy. 

* * *

John woke to the soft sound of rain pattering on the roof. Lying on his back, hands folded on his stomach, he stared at the ceiling. He listened to the drops hitting the farmhouse, letting the gentle rhythm of the rainfall lull him into a stupor. He felt heavy, his body weighed down by night after night of interrupted and broken sleep. Rubbing absently at the blistered skin of his palms, John lay in the cocoon of his blankets, warmth still lingering in the room from the remnants of last night’s fire. It couldn’t have been any later than 6 am, the light soft and unobtrusive through the curtains covering the windows on either side of the bed. 

John wasn’t sure how long he lay there. He went over Greg’s words with a fine-toothed comb, considering them in a fresh light. In the end, John realized there was nothing new to glean, just more of his own insecurities. His own doubts. 

When he finally slid out from under the blankets, the room was chilly, the floor cold under his bare feet. John started the day with a shower, instead of waiting until the evening. With his new, obsessive routine of attacking the wilderness of his yard until he could barely stand, showering later usually made more sense. But the damp weather made his shoulder ache, weakened by the abuse he had subjected it to over the past few days. He could barely lift his left arm fresh out of bed, and John stayed under the water until the heat ran out, massaging the tortured muscle and burning nerve damage with one hand. 

The bruises on his knuckles were beginning to fade, the split skin healing into rough scabs. John flexed his fingers, both pleased and disappointed when the new skin held instead of cracking open. He used the last of Sherlock’s salve on his blistered hands and the new scabs. With the repetitive work, he was building up calluses, the skin thickened and hard over his palms and below his fingers. But it was still early days, and the flesh was tender, his blisters raw and angry. The salve soothed the pain, and John tucked the empty jar in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. He couldn’t quite bring himself to toss it into the bin. 

Breakfast was an egg and a piece of toast. John managed almost half before he scraped the rest into the trash, his stomach twisting at the thought of another bite. He ached for the busyness of physical labour, for the ability to exhaust his body. But it wasn’t even noon, and the ache in his shoulder was like teeth sinking into flesh, despite the long shower.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, John glanced at the living room, brow furrowed as he tried to decide how to spend the empty hours ahead of him. He wasn’t on call for the clinic. His phone was silent. The entirety of the day stretched out before him, endless and empty, and it made John feel like he might go mad at the sheer vacancy of it.

Desperate for distraction, he paced to the bookshelf, scouring the titles for something he hadn’t read. Giving up, John snagged the first book his fingers touched and took it outside on the porch. 

Two rickety, old chairs leaned forgotten against the side of the house, left to the tall, creeping grass. John dragged them into the pale sun, the rain now only a fine, foggy mist in the air as he cleaned leaves and debris of the seats. Grabbing a damp cloth from inside, he scrubbed until the peeling white paint shone through. He tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder, taking care to layer his jumper with a thick coat to keep the chill from his injury. After making himself a cup of tea, John settled onto the porch to read. 

The second chair sat empty next to him, and John tried not to look at it, forcing his eyes back to the open page of his book whenever they strayed. An hour passed, then two, the light changing around him as the sun moved across the sky. It peeked out from behind the clouds, slanting warm across his face and then gone. He made no progress in his book, too distracted by his thoughts to focus on the writing. His vision swam and he sighed.

When the sun next appeared, high above as the day crept toward noon, John put the book down. He closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the warmth. A sound caught his attention, the squelch of something pressing into the soft ground. His eyes fluttered open, expecting a deer or raccoon, some wild animal taking advantage of his stillness to meander across his property.

Sherlock stood at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at him. There was something tucked under his arm, and he was biting his bottom lip with a nervous expression. When he caught John’s eyes on him, Sherlock swallowed hard enough to make his throat bob, his mouth curling in a small, hesitant smile. “Hello, John.” 

“Sherlock.” John sat up, letting his book slip from his hand. It hit the porch, and he winced, unsettled by Sherlock’s presence. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s smile faltered, his eyes squinting half-shut. “I thought I would come and see how you were.” His gaze raked over John’s figure, no doubt taking in the weight he had lost, the pallor of his skin. Meeting John’s eyes again, Sherlock shifted restlessly. “I can go, if—if my presence is unwelcome.” 

“No,” John said quickly. A little too quickly, going by the surprise that flickered across Sherlock’s face. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “Please, stay.” 

Sherlock hesitated. His eyes darted over John’s face, lips pursed as he nodded. Relieved, John smiled instinctively, Sherlock mirroring the expression. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied and climbed the stairs, hovering uncertainly at the top. John nodded at the chair next to him, and Sherlock dropped quickly into the seat. Settling his booted feet on the ground, he glanced at John before holding out the object tucked beneath his arm. “Lestrade sends his regards.”

John reached out to accept the case of homebrew. He smiled, wary, unsure how to read Sherlock’s expression. “Thank you.” Slipping a bottle out of the case, he offered it to Sherlock. “Drink?”

Sherlock nodded and took the offering, a slow, genuine smile forming on his lips. John watched him crack the bottle open, taking a moment to revel in the simple fact that Sherlock was here, at his side, just as he’d hoped for the past few days. When Sherlock caught him staring, John cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to his own drink. He removed the cap and brought the bottle to his lips, closing his eyes as the cool, malty liquid spilled over his tongue. He hummed his enjoyment and, when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was watching his face intently. John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“John,” he began, his voice as serious as his suddenly stiff demeanour. John took another sip of beer, his hands in need of something to keep them busy. Staring at a drop of condensation winding its way down the side of the bottle, he took to rubbing a thumb over the glass as he listened to Sherlock’s low breathing. 

“John, I...I wanted to apologize.” When John looked up, Sherlock held his gaze. His expression was intent, intense, bordering on desperate. “The last time we spoke, I wasn’t able to say what I meant to.” He took a deep breath, picking absently at the label of his beer with a fingernail. His eyes stayed locked on John’s face. “I never intended to make you think your presence was in any way unwelcome in my life.” As if overwhelmed by John’s attention, Sherlock dropped his gaze to the bottle in his hands. To John’s surprise, he saw a faint flush in Sherlock’s face, a light pink working its way up his neck. It was strangely endearing, and John felt himself soften.

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” After a few seconds of hesitation, he reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock inhaled, his breath catching at the contact, and John squeezed gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay and let you explain. That I…” he paused, swallowing. “That I ran away.” When he moved to lean back, Sherlock reacted. He caught John’s hand, holding it fast, keeping him from drawing away. His gaze found John’s again, his grip shaking slightly. His expression open, vulnerable and exposed, he searched John’s eyes. 

“John,” he whispered, the name hardly more than a breath from his parted lips. Looking at him almost hurt. John closed his eyes, desperate for a moment of clarity, for a reason why he could have this again, here, now. To his surprise, he found it in the beer clasped in his hand, and he breathed out a soft laugh.

Opening his eyes, he saw Sherlock watching him with a curious expression, his head tilted to one side as if John were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. At his silent question, John sighed, “You talked to Greg, didn’t you?” 

When Sherlock’s ears went red, John’s smile widened to a grin, and he shook his head. 

“It’s fine,” he assured him, squeezing Sherlock’s hand before gently disentangling his fingers. “I’m glad.” Looking out over the yard, John tapped his palm against the beer bottle. “I know he helped me figure some things out.” When he turned back to Sherlock, the flush had faded, and Sherlock was once more studying his face. “What?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, his voice quiet. “Just.” He waved a hand, indicating the porch, the yard, the two of them. “It’s nice.” He looked at John again, and John saw something unspoken there. Before he could stop himself, he was giving voice to the silent sentiment.

“I missed you, too, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock smiled, a bashful, almost shy turning up of the corners of his mouth. 

John bent his good arm behind his head, settling back in his chair. They sat together for a few hours, watching the day pass over the yard. John talked about his work at the clinic, how slow it was, how he both loved and hated the pace of it. In return, Sherlock told him about his bees, the new honey he was working on, and the latest break-in. They both laughed over Greg’s incident with the glass window, Sherlock hanging on John’s every word as he outlined how he had stitched up the wound. 

It was peaceful. Easy. 

The light took on a golden quality as the day faded into evening, and silence fell between them. It was a relaxing quiet, gentle, comfortable. Sherlock picked the label off his beer in little shreds, his movements more absent than nervous, and John watched the clouds drift past. The drizzle lasted off and on throughout the day, and the damp, close atmosphere left him feeling as if he and Sherlock were in a bubble of their own. As if they were separate from the world, in their own space, a place just for them. 

When John finally stood, Sherlock blinked, his expression dazed. He looked like he had been pulled from some deep train of thought, startled to find that time had passed. Rising to his feet as well, he lingered in front of the chair, watching John’s face carefully. 

“Thanks for the beer,” John said, feeling inexplicably awkward despite the pleasant hours they had shared. He swallowed, adding, “And the company.” Sherlock nodded, playing with the scrap of beer label in his hands. 

“It was…” he paused, studying John’s expression before continuing, “a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.” 

John smiled up at him, relieved as he felt the brief tension fade. “Yes,” he agreed, “it was.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then moved toward the stairs with John following. Before descending, Sherlock turned again, and they were suddenly face-to-face, hardly a foot apart. Startled at the proximity, John’s inhale stuck in his throat. Sherlock stared down at him, his eyes still squinted, gaze raking over John’s expression. His face did something strange, an unidentifiable emotion flickering over his features.

Before John could say anything, Sherlock’s arm lifted. His hand hovered just in front of John’s face, fingers lightly brushing along John’s bottom lip. It was tentative, butterfly-delicate, Sherlock’s touch not quite steady. Without speaking, he abruptly let his arm drop and turned, trotting down the stairs. John watched him go, wondering if that was it, that strangely touching goodbye, when Sherlock unexpectedly turned back, looking up at John from the bottom of the steps.

“Are you on call tomorrow?” he asked, anxiety bleeding into the words. John blinked and smiled, shaking his head. 

“No. Nothing on tomorrow, actually.”

Sherlock’s eyelids lowered, lashes heavy and dark over his silvery eyes. “Good,” he said, drawing the word out until it went deep and warm, reminding John of golden honey. The anxiety was gone. “Dinner?” 

John couldn’t help the small, pleased smile that curved his lips. “Dinner sounds great,” he said. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and he tilted his head. 

“Tomorrow, then.” 

John nodded. “Tomorrow.”


	6. Chapter 6

When sleep refused to claim him that night, it wasn’t simply for fear of nightmares. Now, John felt the tantalizing flicker of anticipation. Of excitement and possibility. Lying in the dark, his fingers hovered over his lips, a mirror image of the way Sherlock had touched him before leaving. The brief contact lingered on his skin, sending flickers of nerves through his body. Filled with expectation, John breathed an unsteady sigh and closed his eyes.

He replayed the afternoon in his head, from when he had opened his eyes and found Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. John remembered the way they had sat together, just the two of them, removed from the world, content in the company of the other.

In comparison, he realized how withdrawn he had been in the days before. How he had isolated himself, all while thinking he had been abandoned. How he had turned his back to everyone, rather than everyone else pushing him away. As the thoughts resurfaced, John felt a deep sense of shame at the pattern of his actions. 

The jury was still out on Mary’s part to play, but John saw now that he wasn’t blameless for what his life had become—for what he had _allowed_ it to become. Still luxuriating in how it felt to be back at Sherlock’s side, to bask in Sherlock’s intense focus, John resolved not to let things continue as they had. He couldn’t give in to the black waters that lived within him, the ones he had been allowing himself to drown in. 

Hands clenched tightly around the edge of the comforter, John resolved to be different. To stop running, both from himself and the people he cared about.

The nightmares still found him, around the same time sleep did. This time, he almost felt ready.

* * *

John rose with the sun. He was tired but alert, feeling eager for the day ahead. Even though there was no rain when he woke, the sky felt heavy, dark with clouds that hung low and oppressive, their thick, grey bellies weighted down with the possibility of rain. It gave John the feeling of being compressed, trapped, left with nowhere to run. He tried his best to shake the sensation off, knowing the evening held a visit from Sherlock. Dinner, maybe some more of Greg’s homebrew, and the chance to talk. The chance to really get out what John wanted, and needed, to say.

He wanted to lay his cards on the table. To finally tell Sherlock the things that had been churning inside his head since they had kissed in John’s kitchen. 

Puttering around the farmhouse, John straightened and tidied. He cleaned the bathroom and finished the few dishes in his sink. Some of the food in the fridge had spoiled, and he made sure to dispose of the expired meals, giving the shelves and bins a thorough scrub.

When everything was clean, he stood in the kitchen, pleased with what he had managed to accomplish. Sticky with a slight sheen of sweat, body aching with a more comfortable kind of physical labour than what he had been subjecting himself to over the past few days, John showered, dressed in clean clothes, and went into town to replace what he had binned.

The walk did him good, even if the weather remained strange and heavy. It felt like the sky was holding its breath, building up a surplus of energy for some kind of impending discharge. John eyed the heavens warily, almost wishing he had worn a better jacket. Luckily, the store was close enough for cover, even if he was caught in a sudden downpour.

But the weather held. The sky stayed closed above him, hot and humid, the electricity prickling along the nape of his neck. He made it to town unscathed, a layer of clinging humidity sticking to his skin. The store was sparsely attended, and John nipped in and out quickly, picking up the necessities and a few extras. On his way home with a bottle of wine, he ran into Greg and Mycroft on the edge of town, John’s mood pleasant enough that he actually managed to smile at Mycroft, albeit slightly strained.

“Hey, John.” Greg raised a hand in greeting, Mycroft frowning at his side. “How goes it?”

John tilted his head. “Good.” He paused, hesitated, and added, “Better.” 

Greg’s grin widened. “Glad to hear it.” He nudged Mycroft in the side, nodding to John. “Say hi, Myc.” 

“Yeah, Myc,” John goaded, picking up on the unsubtle way Mycroft grimaced at the nickname. “Great to see you again.”

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said formally, his lips twisting down at the corners. “Pleasure, I’m sure.” His eyes flickered over John, coming to rest on the bottle of wine gripped in John’s right hand. “Ah, I hope you found a vintage Sherlock will enjoy.” His brow rose as John’s face reddened. “I had wondered why he was so adamant about turning down family dinner on one of the few nights when I am in town.” 

John’s flush deepened. Greg swatted Mycroft’s arm, frowning. “Shut up, you sod. This is why no one ever wants to come over.” Turning an apologetic smile toward John, Greg sighed. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, no, not your fault,” John said. “I’ll catch up with you later, Greg.” He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “Good to see you, _Myc.”_

Mycroft sighed. “And you, Doctor Watson.” 

John carried on, letting his feet take him along the path to home. As with his first time walking into town, he stopped to watch the cows in their pasture, realizing they must belong to Irene, Kate and Molly. Following the meandering animals with lazy eyes, arms folded on top of the white paddock fence, he wondered how the three women were doing. Brow furrowed, he also wondered how their dynamic worked, all of them living in the house together. Was it a relationship? Platonic life-partners? 

With a twinge of embarrassment, John realized it was none of his business one way or the other. 

He wiped his hands off on his jeans before picking up the wine and his bag of groceries off the ground and continued on his way

* * *

It was hardly half-past three when a knock on the front door drew John out of the sitting room and into the kitchen. Though he didn’t expect any different, he was still pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock on the other side. 

“Afternoon,” he said, stepping aside to let Sherlock into the house. “Didn’t realize you’d be so early.” As soon as the words left his mouth, John wanted to take them back, hoping he hadn’t inspired insecurity in Sherlock’s early appearance. But the detective strode past him without pausing, making himself at home as he slid the oven open and deposited a tinfoil-covered baking tray inside. He turned toward John, his face flushed with a wild excitement that caught John off guard. 

“John,” he said, his voice thrumming with warmth and barely contained energy. The sight of him reminded John of the sky outside, darkening and nearly humming with potential, an eruption waiting to happen. Sherlock stalked across the kitchen, and John’s eyes widened, wondering if Sherlock was going to embrace him, kiss him, or shove him out the still-open door of his own kitchen.

Instead, the detective retrieved something from inside his coat before dropping several case files in John’s arms with a grin. He looked at John expectantly, who, breaking eye contact, stared at the folders. 

“What are these?” 

Sherlock beamed down at him. “Case files. One for each of the break-ins.” Leaning forward, he tapped a finger on the top folder. “Starting with the first, four years ago.” 

John frowned, flicking through the files as his eyes narrowed. “But I thought you said the last spate was six months ago?” 

Nodding, Sherlock grinned. “Yes. And that was correct. As it turns out, there is a larger pattern. One I was missing. Until now.” He slid the topmost file free of John’s arms and flipped it open, showing John the date at the top: four years ago. “This was the first. It’s a cycle, not just six months apart, but spaced by _a two-year gap_. _”_ Sherlock shook his head with a sigh as if irritated at himself for not realizing the fact sooner. “I was living in London when the last cycle happened, and Lestrade is still new to the area himself. Thanks to a conversation with Mrs. Hudson and a few of the other long-term residents of the town, I found all I needed to know. There was _more_ to the story.” Turning away from John, he busied himself with searching the cupboards, making himself at home as he set two plates, two glasses, and cutlery on the table. 

Still standing at the door with his arms full of files, John watched him and smiled, feeling strangely touched by the domestic display. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, bustling about as he continued speaking.

“Once I realized what I was missing, I went to the station and asked Lestrade to look into the records. Much of it was poorly organized, and it took a few days for him and Donovan to track the proper reports down.” His lips twitched, indicating Sherlock’s obvious disdain for the disorganized state of the police station. He took the dish from the oven and began spooning food onto the plates, seeming to pay no mind to John as John approached the kitchen table. “Now that I have the full stretch of records, it should be child’s play to establish the full pattern.” He finally looked up when John piled the folders on the counter, well away from the oven. Shaking his head as if coming out of a daze, Sherlock watched John switch the cups he had set out for wine glasses. At his questioning head tilt, John smiled.

“I picked something up from the store,” he explained, offering the bottle of wine. Sherlock took it, studying the label as John asked, “So, why did you bring the files here?”

Eyes still on the bottle in his hands, Sherlock replied absently, “I was hoping you’d be amenable to reading them over with me.” Raising his eyes, he offered a tentative smile. “I’ve had a quick look, but I hoped you would be willing to provide a second perspective. And,” his confidence faltered, the smile creeping closer to uncertain, “I find I work better with someone to talk to.” 

Softening at Sherlock's hesitance, John said, “I’d love to help.” Sherlock seemed to relax, relief filtering over his face.

“Yes, good. Thank you. That’s...good.” Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded to the table. “First, let’s eat.” He turned a shrewd eye on John, his brow furrowed. “You’ve lost weight.” 

John waved the comment away, taking a seat as Sherlock placed a plate in front of him. “Nothing I couldn’t spare.” 

Sherlock’s lips pursed. “I disagree, John.” He added another scoop of steaming food to John’s serving. “I expect you to eat every bite.” He sounded like a scolding parent, and John couldn’t resist a soft chuckle. 

“Yessir,” he said dutifully. “But that means you have to as well.” 

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing John’s words. “I’ll eat properly once the case is solved.” His face lit up with a delighted smirk. “With your help, I’m sure that won’t take long.” He took a seat across from John, poking at his food, seemingly oblivious to the warmth radiating through John’s chest in response to the compliment. 

The food Sherlock brought was a baked shepherd’s pie. It was obviously homemade, with rich gravy, creamy mashed potatoes, and fresh green peas mixed into the meat. John was certain he ingested more calories with each bite than he had over the past several days. He complimented the dish, and Sherlock shrugged.

“Molly brought it by yesterday. It’s her way of saying thanks for the work we did for the three of them, her, Kate, and Irene.” His eyes fixed on John, hawk-like, watching closely as John ate. When he sat back and moved to set his fork down, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John rolled his eyes before leaning forward to finish the last bites. 

Sherlock offered seconds, and John held up his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe later, thank you.” 

Sherlock nodded, though his lips pursed and he made a show of transferring the leftovers into a plastic container he found in one of John’s cupboards. As he slid it into the fridge, he glanced over his shoulder at John, who was watching him with amusement. 

“I expect this to be eaten within the next few days,” he said with a pointed look, and John couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips. 

Wine glasses in hand, they retreated to the porch as afternoon faded toward evening. With the heavy clouds overhead, the quality of the light was deeper, twilight rushing upon them earlier than usual, ushered in by the low ceiling of the darkened sky. The air still felt heavy, charged, brimming with anticipation and threatening rain. 

Leaning against the railing with Sherlock at his side, his stomach full, John felt more at peace than he had in days. It was good, this, having someone next to him who wanted to be there, someone who ‘fed him up’ and made sure he was comfortable. He tried not to feel guilty for allowing himself a brief moment of almost perfect bliss. 

Sherlock stood close. His elbow brushed John’s hand on the banister, and John let his hip bump against Sherlock’s as he shifted his weight. 

“Thanks,” he said, knowing he didn’t need to elaborate. Despite the lack of communication between them lately, John still felt like Sherlock could read him better than John could read himself. With the electric edge to the atmosphere, he thought he could sense something vibrating between them, just waiting for one of them to give voice to it. To name it and invite the feeling into the sparse inches separating their bodies. 

Looking into his wine glass, swirling the red liquid against the smooth curve of the bell-shape, John sighed. He felt Sherlock’s eyes shift to his face, expectant, waiting for him to say something John himself didn’t even realize he wanted to say. 

As if taking a leap of faith, John opened his mouth and set free whatever it was he was meant to share.

“She’s my wife.” Sherlock twitched, and John cleared his throat, elaborating, “The woman who was here, the other day. Well. Ex-wife.” Shrugging, he dangled both hands over the railing, wine glass cradled between his curled fingers. “Things...didn’t end well.” John rolled his neck, stretching the suddenly tense muscles until the tendons popped, relieving some of the tightness in his body. “She cheated on me when I was overseas. Not just once.” John looked out across the yard, his eyes unfocused. “After I was shot, she didn’t want to be married to me anymore. She said I had changed, that I was too different. A few months after I came home, she handed me the papers and asked me for a divorce.” His brow furrowed, lips pursing as he considered his next words carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, deeper. “I used to think it was all her fault, you know? Like I was some kind of victim, someone who deserved more. Deserved better.” He fell silent, the quiet pensive. 

Sherlock shifted next to him, his shoulder pressing against John’s. “Don’t you?” he asked gently. John frowned.

“Still not sure, really.” Turning his head, he looked at Sherlock. John studied his sharp, angular face, his pale eyes and paler skin. “Still figuring out what I need.” 

Inexplicably, Sherlock smiled. The expression was sweet if a little sad. “I hope you find it.” 

Eyes dropping to the wine glass in his hands, John nodded. Sherlock’s shoulder was warm where it leaned into his. “I hope so, too.” 

They were quiet for a moment, letting the words sink in, each allowing the other to lose themselves in the winding ways of their thoughts, swirling like the clouds above. 

John opened his mouth to speak, and a massive, tooth-rattling crack split the air, followed by a flash of brilliant light. The boom was like a cannon firing, soundwaves ripping through the expectant atmosphere. It made the hair stand up all over John’s body. He sucked in a breath, heartbeat racing into overdrive as adrenaline spilled through his veins. Gasping, his eyes wide, he watched lightning split the sky in a bright, blinding arc toward the earth. John’s mind warred with his instincts, telling him it was just a storm, that he wasn’t back in Afghanistan. That the following explosion of thunder overhead wasn’t the sound of a helicopter being shot from the sky.

Sherlock’s fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck, making John shudder. His palm cupped John’s ear, followed by the ticklish feeling of Sherlock’s lips against the lobe.

“It’s just thunder, John!” His breath was loud and hot on John’s skin, his heartbeat nearly audible where it raced in the pulse beneath the skin of his wrist. “The storm has been building all day.” 

John nodded. In spite of Sherlock’s reassurances, his own breathing was fast and jagged, pushed out through his teeth. He stared into the yard, left hand tightening around the delicate stem of the wine glass until it nearly cracked. The sky flickered and blazed with light again, painting flashes of white over Sherlock’s face when John turned toward him. 

The skies opened, releasing a downpour that pounded against the porch eaves. Raindrops bounced off the ground from the sheer velocity of their plunge from the clouds overhead. The sound of it was like a physical wave, vibrating John’s eardrums, only outdone by another crash of thunder. 

Sherlock tugged at John’s arm, pulling him toward the door, his other hand rescuing the wine glass from John’s tense grip. 

“Inside,” he said, shouting to be heard over the din of the squall. “Let’s get inside!” John followed, letting Sherlock tow him into the house. A chill was quickly seeping into the interior, the humidity of the building storm receding as the downpour cooled the air.

Regaining his wits, John marched to the living room and set about lighting a fire. Preoccupied with his task, it took him a moment to realize Sherlock was nowhere in sight. The absence made him nervous, and he leaned back to peer into the kitchen. Sherlock was closing the window above the sink, his eyes narrowed against the rain spilling in before he managed to slide it shut.

With the fire set, flames licking greedily at the fuel, John ran a hand through his hair and stood. He felt sheepish, embarrassment tasting bitter in his mouth after his overreaction to the storm. Dusting his palms off on his thighs, he returned to the kitchen. Sherlock was still at the sink, staring out the window as sheets of rain fell outside. He turned at the sound of John’s approach, and where John once again expected to see judgement and confusion, he saw only acceptance. The sight of it banished the apology forming on his lips. Instead of saying what he’d planned, John cleared his throat, swallowed, and said in a tight voice, “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled. He held John’s gaze for a long moment, and anything else John might have said was rendered needless. 

Stepping forward, John lay a hand on the stack of case files he had placed on the counter earlier. “Should we get started on these?” he asked, glancing up in time to catch Sherlock’s nod. “Great.” The last tight coil of tension eased inside his chest. “I’ll top up the wine glasses.”

* * *

As the storm raged on outside, the two of them huddled together over the cases. Now and again, they discussed an anomaly, compared notes, checked in with the other. Mostly, they read silently, comfortable in one another’s presence. The sound of the wind and rain against the walls of the farmhouse was a stark contrast to the easily shared space, and John found himself relaxing more and more with each passing minute. The wine helped as well, half of the bottle gone between them. 

Sitting back in his chair, John stretched his arms over his head. The movement pulled a groan from deep in his chest as his shoulders popped, the left sending a faint twinge of pain down the damaged nerves. He rubbed at it absently, caught Sherlock looking at him, and tilted his head.

“Alright?” 

Sherlock nodded. But he didn’t return to his reading immediately, instead letting his eyes drift over John’s raised arms, down to his shoulders and chest before returning to his face. He sighed, and John lowered his arms. 

“What is it?” he asked, leaning forward. Sherlock’s lower lip pushed out, teeth settling against the pale pink flesh.

“I thought I would have solved this by now.” His voice was low and frustrated. “But I haven’t.” He raked a hand through his curls, setting them to disarray. John thought it gave him a rakish, dishevelled look. It was oddly charming, and he had to drag his eyes away from the mussed hair to look at the papers in front of him. 

“It’ll come,” John said, speaking with a confidence he was startled to find felt genuine. “Just give it time.” 

Sherlock huffed, frowning down at the folders scattered across the table. “Patience never was my forte.”

Grinning, John flipped open another file. “What about—” The power flickered and died, taking his words with it as they were plunged into darkness. His eyes slow to adjust to the sudden, inky black, John blinked until the faint outline of Sherlock’s face came into focus. “The storm must have knocked the power out,” he surmised, rising carefully to his feet. John squinted. “Hold on, I think I have candles here, somewhere…” Leaving Sherlock at the table, twisting in his chair to look out the window at the howling storm, John made his way across the kitchen by touch alone. When he came across the counter, he dug around in a drawer, still struggling to see in the overwhelming black. He shoved aside miscellaneous clutter until his hands closed on a few tea candles and a pack of matches. Setting them on the counter, he frowned. “Not sure how much light these will give off, but I suppose it’s better than nothing.” 

Sherlock’s non-committal hum of agreement was quiet behind him. John set the small candles about the kitchen, lighting them with the matches. Sherlock’s eyes were an almost physical weight on his back. Shaking the last match out, John glanced at him over his shoulder. “You alright?” 

Sherlock nodded, his gaze a silver flicker in the dim light. “Quite.” John smiled. Sinking back into his chair, he gestured to the papers spread out on the table. 

“Shall we?” After a moment of flicking through the documents, he asked, “Does this happen often?” At Sherlock’s curious look, he added, “The blackout? I wonder if I should invest in a generator.”

Sherlock scribbled a note in the margin of a page. “Mm, not really,” he replied in a soft voice. “This is the third time it’s happened in two years.” Squinting, he held the document close to his face as the candlelight flickered, casting shadows over the words. 

“Sorry.” John’s sheepish apology earned him Sherlock’s attention over the top edge of the paper. “I know it’s not much, the candles. I have a lantern somewhere, but I’ve no idea what box it’s packed away in.” 

Sherlock’s expression softened, the frown fading from his brow. “The candles are fine.” His eyes roved over the small spots of light, a curious moue curving his mouth. “Though, I’m surprised.”

Eyebrows rising, John tilted his head. “Surprised?”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who buys tea candles,” Sherlock said, setting the paper back down on the table. Folding his hands together, he blinked slowly at John.

John laughed, the sound strained in his own ears. For some inexplicable reason, he felt unsteady, as if the loss of the light had freed something inside him. Something small and insecure. Sherlock looked closer at him, and John cleared his throat. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for bubble baths.” 

Sherlock’s chuckle was soft and deep, rumbling in the dark. “Of course. How did I not realize?” His teeth flashed in a sly smile. “You are, after all, a romantic.” His tone was lightly teasing, but John felt himself bristle despite the gentle playfulness of Sherlock’s response.

A tight feeling settled in his chest, and his voice emerged sounding sour. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, “Such a romantic.” John nearly sneered the words, and Sherlock frowned. 

“John, I meant no offense.”

Shaking his head, John clenched his hand into a tight fist against his thigh. _Dammit_ , he thought. _You’re supposed to be better than this, Watson._ He swallowed, trying again. “No. No, it’s fine. You’re fine.” Eyes fixed on the candles, watching the wavering flame dart shadows over the table, he shrugged. “Mary bought them.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said in understanding, his gaze fixed on the open case files. Despite the façade, John could see Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eyes. John reached out and drifted a fingertip over one of the candles, his expression blank as he nodded.

“Yeah.” He felt his smile turn bitter, the hot bite of the flame a stark contrast to the frigid, empty feeling in his chest. “As I said, things didn’t end well with her and me.” His voice was tight, the words coloured with self-deprecation. Across from him, the edges of Sherlock’s eyes were taut with tension.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. John shrugged. 

“It is what it is.” Reaching out, he gathered the papers into a stack, tapping them into a neat pile. “It helps, having some distance. New scenery, a fresh start.” His lips quirked, eyes darting briefly to Sherlock’s face. “Good company.”

Sherlock looked like he had been caught off guard, and he stared until John cleared his throat awkwardly. Sherlock’s cheeks looked slightly pink, but John couldn’t be sure in the inconsistent candlelight.

“Right, well.” John coughed loudly, fighting to regain a sense of normalcy. “I don’t know about you, but my old eyes can’t see a damn thing like this.” His smile felt small and tight, movements stiff as he pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. “I think I’m for bed.” With a quick glance out the window at the raging storm, he added, “Might be best if you stay here. Not sure it would be a good idea to brave that.” Fingers twitching, he smoothed his palms against his thighs. “You can take the bed, I’ll just go make it up for you.”

Setting aside the papers in his hands, placing them carefully away from the candles, Sherlock looked up at John with an unreadable expression. “And you? Where will you sleep?”

“The couch.”

Sherlock frowned. “What about your shoulder?”

John shrugged, turning away to blow out the candles on the counter. “It’s just one night. I’ll be fine. Besides, you’re too tall for it.” He offered a faint smile. Sherlock’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue, instead rising to his feet to return the papers to their file folders. John puttered about the kitchen, checking the windows and the silent fridge, making sure both were securely shut. Once satisfied, he shot a look at Sherlock. “I’m going to put some fresh sheets on the bed if you want to wash up. There’s probably a spare toothbrush under the bathroom sink. It’s just down the hall.”

Eyebrow raised, Sherlock’s head tilted. “I know, John.”

His nerves overtaking him, John’s smile felt strange on his face. Strained. “Oh, right,” he said. “Yeah.” Clearing his throat, he turned away, heading for the hallway. “I’ll find you something to sleep in,” he called over his shoulder before escaping into the bedroom. Alone in the dark, he paused to take in several shaky, uneven breaths, hands flexing and releasing in response to the inexplicable surge of adrenaline in his body. 

_Why?_ he thought, feeling almost helpless. _Why do I feel so...unbalanced?_ No answer was forthcoming, and John sighed, digging through his dresser for something that might fit Sherlock. Everything was too short or too ratty, and he scowled. Then he remembered the too-large clothes tucked into a box, brought to be turned into rags before they were summarily forgotten. Digging them out, relieved to see that they were clean, he folded the cotton bottoms and t-shirt into a neat square, leaving the bedroom to place them outside the bathroom door. Inside, John heard the faint squeak of the tap, followed by water hitting against the sink. 

He took another deep breath. It felt odd, hearing the sounds of someone else in the house, someone preparing for bed in his home, a place that had been empty save for John. The feeling was, strangely, both reassuring in its domesticity, and terrifying in its impermanence. 

Sherlock had taken a candle with him, the light flickering warm under the door. Shaking himself, John moved about the kitchen, gathering candles from various surfaces. He set a few on the table, unlit, and carried one to the living room, the other to the bedroom. After lighting the wick, he placed it on the dresser to see by as he changed the sheets on the bed. He heard the bathroom door open and close again and paused, waiting. While Sherlock, he assumed, changed into the clothes, John turned his attention to the pillows, shaking them out of their covers to replace with new ones.

The bathroom door opened again, and he realized his hands were beginning to tremble. Clenching his teeth, John tried to force them still, pulling a case over a pillow.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice called from the dark hallway, and John had to clear his throat twice before he could answer. 

“In here.”

In the quiet house, nearly silent save for the wild wind rattling past the walls, the rain drumming the roof, Sherlock’s footsteps were audible, a soft whisper over the hardwood. He appeared in the doorway as John smoothed his hands over the pillow, tucking the edges of the case inside before looking up.

“Oh, good,” he said, taking in the sight of Sherlock. “Glad the clothes fit. They belonged to an old uni roommate of mine. Got mixed in with my laundry years and years back, never made it back to him.” He grinned, nervousness tingeing the expression into something sharper than intended. “Always meant to cut them into rags. Good thing I didn’t.”

“Most fortuitous,” Sherlock replied, looking around the room. It was a sparse, small space, dominated by the bed and a large set of drawers that had seen better days. Curtains, plain and blue, hung over the windows bordering the scratched headboard, and a threadbare rug—the same colour as the curtains—lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. The two end tables were plain as well, nearly bare save for a small lamp, a pair of reading glasses, an alarm clock, and a half-full glass of water. 

“It’s not much, I know,” John commented, shrugging. He felt self-conscious. “But it’s a bed.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock turned to the dresser. On top was the only truly personal item in the entire space, a framed photograph of several men. They grinned toward the camera and squinted against brilliant sunlight, wearing combat gear with guns slung across their chests. Picking it up, Sherlock held the candle near as John moved to his side, both of them looking down at the picture. Sherlock squinted as if trying to make out the faces in the gloom. Already familiar with the photo, John found himself easily near the middle, his arms around James Sholto and a combat nurse, William Murray. His hair was short, much shorter than he ever wore it now, still bright and golden blonde, with less grey at the temples. His eyes were crinkled at the corners by his wide smile, skin tanned a dark bronze by the desert sun. 

Looking at his past self, John’s stomach clenched. He looked happy. Almost radiant. The difference between that man and who he was now was like night and day. The reality of it sank deep, making his throat tighten.

Sherlock turned to look at him. His pale eyes searched John’s face. As his mouth filled with the bitter taste of regret, John wondered if Sherlock was measuring the differences between his current self and the man in the photograph. Part of him hoped not, while another part wondered what he could possibly see in the small, sad man at his side. If he saw how washed-out and faded John was, or if he saw something more. Something worth his effort. Some _one_ to be valued. 

John shivered at the sound of Sherlock’s breath catching in his throat as he held the picture frame out when John reached for it. John found himself speaking, the words emerging without thought.

“Some of my platoon, back when I was first deployed. Kandahar. Bloody hotshots, the lot of us.” Studying the faces of the men in the photo, a still-frame caught in time, a smile passed over John’s lips. It faded as his fingers drifted over the glass. “God, we were so young.” He felt Sherlock watching him and kept his eyes on the picture.

“You’re still young, John.”

The laughter that emerged from John’s mouth was sharp, bitter. He felt moisture rise in his eyes and blinked hard until it was gone. 

“Yeah. Sure, I am,” he replied sarcastically, his nose wrinkling. He touched a finger to the image of his own face, years younger and infinitely less weathered. “I thought that once…maybe…” Clearing his throat, John shook his head and didn’t finish the sentence. The smile he forced onto his face felt painfully false.

“John—” Sherlock began, but John didn’t let him finish. He didn’t want to hear the ending of that sentence.

“No, it’s nothing,” he interrupted. He set the photo back on the dresser and turned away. “Um. The comforter on the bed is usually warm enough, but if you get cold, there’s a spare blanket in the closet. Please, grab it if you need it.” John cleared his throat again and offered a strained smile to the man still standing beside the dresser. “I’ll be in the living room. Let me know if you need anything.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned a sharp about-face on his heel and moved toward the door. He realized he had forgotten the matches on the dresser but refused to turn back, knowing he could find his way in the dark if he had to.

After all, that’s what he’d been doing since returning from Afghanistan. 

Before he reached the door, Sherlock’s hand shot out. His fingers closed around John’s wrist and pulled him to a stop. Sucking in a startled breath, John stiffened.

“I’m…sorry,” Sherlock said, his voice hardly more than a sigh.

John shook his head, facing away from him. “Don’t be,” he whispered, barely keeping his voice from breaking. The words eased into the dark room, fading into the black air.

“John, I…” Sherlock spoke softly, his fingers briefly loosening before tensing on John’s wrist. “I don’t know what to say.”

Turning, John searched Sherlock’s face, confused. “You don’t need to say anything.” Realization dawned, and his expression darkened. Sherlock blinked as John’s words emerged harsh and angry. “I don’t need you to pity me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face shifted into a look of surprise. “I don’t pity you, John,” he said, and his hold tightened, his brows drawing down in a frown. “Is that what you think? That I pity you?”

John looked away, Sherlock’s raw expression too much for him to handle. “Why not?” he asked bitterly. “Everyone else seems to. Stupid of me to think it would be any different here.” His eyes narrowed against the tears threatening to rise and spill over. 

To his shock, Sherlock stepped forward. He gripped both John’s wrists, his hold sliding down to John’s hands as he twined their fingers together. John looked up at him with a frown. 

“What are you doing?” The question was sharp, bordering aggressive, but Sherlock’s eyes were achingly gentle.

“How could I pity you, John?” he murmured, his voice soft. “You, who is made of light and brilliance.” His fingers tightened around John’s. “A true conductor of light, proof that there’s more to this life than the present moment, should be above any kind of pity.”

Staring, trying to parse out the meaning in the strange comment, John swallowed. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means,” Sherlock began, tilting his head and moving closer, “don’t leave.”

John’s confusion only deepened. “I’m…I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” he said, squinting in the semi-darkness. “I didn’t mean I was going to move again or anything like that. I’m just…” he lifted a shoulder, sighing. “I’m frustrated.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, John, you misunderstand me.” Untangling his right hand from John’s left, he reached out. His thumb brushed lightly over the damp skin of John’s cheek. The touch was delicate, making John shiver. “I meant stay. Here. Now.” Sherlock leaned forward, the gentle caress turning into a palm cupping John’s jaw. “Stay with me.” Closing the remaining distance between them, Sherlock drifted his lips over John’s temple. The contact drew a startled breath into John’s throat before Sherlock ducked his head, their mouths coming together. Sherlock’s lips were warm and dry, his tongue minty with toothpaste when it swiped along John’s bottom lip, bringing with it the lingering taste of the wine and dinner they had shared earlier. 

John stiffened with brief surprise before he softened. His hands slid up to Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, and John found himself tilting forward. Sherlock’s body was lean and taut against his, John letting his head fall to the side as Sherlock mouthed over his jaw, tracing the contours of his neck with lips and tongue.

“Sherlock?” he breathed, the name a soft question. Sherlock hummed, nuzzling at the skin peeking out from the collar of John’s shirt. 

“Let me show you.” He trailed kisses up John’s throat, slow, open-mouthed, finding his way back to John’s lips. “Let me show you how I see you.” Sherlock’s breathing quickened, the sound of it drawing a moan from John when Sherlock sank his teeth lightly against his bottom lip, groaning, _“John…”_

Arms tight around him, Sherlock turned them both, his hands stroking over John’s back through clothing as he led him toward the bed. Gripping John’s shoulders, Sherlock eased him down to the mattress, and John let him, his body pliant and yielding under Sherlock’s guidance. Sherlock pushed him back gently until he could straddle John’s lap, knees bent on either side of John’s hips and anchored on the mattress. He ducked his head, his mouth hungry against John’s, his hands wandering. They worked their way down John’s shoulders, to the buttons of his shirt, slipping it off once John’s chest was bared. John moved his arms to give him space, and Sherlock tossed the shirt to the floor before returning his attention to John’s skin, mapping out the contours of his chest and stomach. His fingertips drifted over the ridges of prominent ribs, brushing over hardening nipples and drawing a gasp from John.

“See?” Sherlock whispered against his lips, the corners of his mouth curled with light amusement. “Too skinny.”

A soft laugh escaped John, the sound a mixture of surprise and amusement. “Whatever you say,” he whispered back, still in disbelief for what was happening. Sherlock’s thighs pressed against either side of John’s waist, the weight of his body warm and welcome.

Sherlock’s hands moved higher. They traced over and out from the hard ridges of John’s clavicles, drifting upward.

The skin of John’s left shoulder was marked by the bullet in a starburst, the edges rough and gnarled, shaped around flesh pitted by the leavings of infection and multiple surgeries. Sherlock traced the brutal scar, first with fingers then his lips. The sensation was intense, the damaged nerve-endings flaring with ghostly pain and almost-pleasure. 

John’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment for the mess his body had become. He was too thin, too worn out, marked and scarred and broken, ugly underneath Sherlock’s hands. He tried to turn his head away, his face closing off, but Sherlock’s hands slid higher. He gripped John’s hair, pulling their mouths back together. He kissed and licked past John’s lips until John felt his body loosen, and he moaned long and low in his throat. 

“Ah, Sherlock…” 

John sounded breathless, needy, even to his own ears. Feeling a flood of shame at his desperate response, his eyes flew open as Sherlock groaned loudly, his hips twitching forward. His arousal was obvious, hard and wanting through his trousers, pressing against John’s thigh. John’s head fell back with a sigh, and his eyes slipped shut, his uncertainty fading at the knowledge that Sherlock seemed just as lost to what was happening between them as he was. 

John let his hands drift, fingers caressing the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, moving up his bent legs to the hot flesh trapped behind soft fabric. He stroked his thumbs over the bulge contained by the clothing, panting at the sound of Sherlock’s sinfully wanton whimpers, broken and rough in his deep voice. Opening his eyes, holding Sherlock’s gaze, John reached the edge of the borrowed cotton pyjamas. The rough rhythm of their breathing mingled in a cacophony, a delicate rhythm of oxygen and carbon dioxide as he pulled down the front of Sherlock’s bottoms and drew him out of his pants. 

When John’s hand closed around his growing erection, Sherlock groaned again. His lashes fluttered, eyelids lowering over his dark eyes, turning them into silver slits. John stroked him slowly, root to tip. The long, languid pulls soon had Sherlock thrusting into his hand, cock at full mast and sliding through the crook of John’s fingers. The glide was rough, the friction nearly cruel, but Sherlock moaned and sighed nonetheless, making John feel a little less awkward that he had no lube at hand. 

Instead of fading into his thoughts, he focused on Sherlock. On the soft, breathless noises he made, the way he curved over John, still straddling him. How his toes curled where they dug into the sides of John’s calves, the gesture evidence of bliss. His hips moved in time with John’s stroking hand, drawing unhurried, perfect thrusts of pressure against John’s own cock, still trapped inside his jeans. 

When Sherlock began to pant, his movements turning sloppy, hips jerking forward helplessly, he fumbled with John’s zipper. Slipping back, he managed to get it down, pushing jeans open and pants down before straddling John once more and taking him in hand. 

Staring up at Sherlock, watching his face as he caressed him, brought John to full hardness with just a few smooth, twisting strokes. John thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. Sherlock was ethereal, pale and shivering above him. Head thrown back, dark curls a mass around his flushed face, loose locks falling over his forehead in sweaty, straggling strands, he was stunning. The literal image of debauchery, biting hard on his bottom lip as if trying to hold himself back. 

For once, John didn’t worry about what he himself might look like or how his marred body told a tale he’d prefer to hide. Instead, he looked at Sherlock as one would look upon the face of God, reverent, filled with awe. Sherlock looked down at him with the same worshipful adoration on his flushed, sweaty face.

“John,” he breathed. Thus far, the room had been nearly silent, save for the sound of their breathing, the soft noise of hands moving over hard flesh, the rustle of clothing. The rain was a percussion orchestra against the roof, and Sherlock’s whisper was as loud as a shout in the air humming between them. “Oh, John…” 

He sounded wrecked, bordering on desperate, the pace of his hips speeding up. Before John could respond, before he could comprehend words that might possibly do Sherlock’s whispered reverence justice, Sherlock was gently pushing John’s hand away and taking them both in his grip. 

Sherlock’s cock curved against his, the skin hot, the contact exquisite, exceptional, wiping the thoughts from John’s suddenly blank mind. With a slow, smooth stroke, Sherlock spread precum over both of them, his thumb caressing the sensitive, aching head of John’s leaking arousal.

“Oh, god, _Sherlock.”_ The name left John’s mouth in a gasp, a shaky, shuddering exhale as Sherlock stroked them both. He pulled them to the edge and pushed them over, sending John gasping and shuddering into his orgasm. He spilled over Sherlock’s curled fingers, nearly painting his lowered face with the force of his release. 

With a low groan, Sherlock bent lower, ducking over John’s body while it trembled, wracked with aftershocks. His lips found John’s, and he claimed and stroked into his mouth with a demanding tongue. He fed John the air from his lungs as he sighed and came over John’s heaving stomach and chest. 

The sound of the rain harmonized with the pattern of their breathing until John couldn’t tell where they ended and the weather began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Drumming Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axds6hg1DlM) \- Florence and the Machine  
> [Electricity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv3omL-LD_E) \- flora cash  
> [Fix Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAkjkgEG3Ps) \- Beck


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I decided to post chapters seven and eight a day early because I am going away for the weekend, and I don't really want to drag my laptop with me. I'll also be busy doing family things tomorrow, so I didn't want to miss out on posting the last two chapters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for fluff, fluff, fluff! and don't forget, chapter 8 is being posted today as well, so make sure you read them in order and don't miss a chapter in the subscribed email.

John tensed the second his eyes opened. There was something next to him, pressed up against his side, hot and firm, and pinning him to the bed. His chest tightened as his heart began to race, drawing in a shocked gasp of air. Before the surge of fight or flight could wash away any possibility at coherence, he turned his head.

Sherlock’s face was inches from his own. Cheek pillowed in the curve of his palm, his lips were slightly parted, eyes closed as he breathed slow and steady, each exhale brushing John’s jaw. His long, dark eyelashes cast spidery shadows over the skin beneath his eyes, a delicate contrast to the wild disarray of his crushed curls. John blinked. He stared in wonder, and his body slowly calmed.

One of his arms flung over John’s waist, Sherlock was plastered against John’s side where John lay on his back. A long leg rested over John’s, bent at the knee, effectively trapping John against the mattress. It was this, coupled with the warmth of Sherlock’s bare skin, that had woken him, pulling John from sleep into a surprising new reality. 

It had been months since he slept with someone like this. Years. Even after he had returned from Afghanistan, after Mary had tried and failed to rouse his interest in their shared bed, they had slept on opposite sides of the mattress. She had turned her back to him, and John had lain staring up at the ceiling. He had felt alone, waiting for the nightmares to pull him down into their grip, knowing he would wake alone then, too.

With a jolt, John understood why he felt so unbalanced. Watching the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, he realized he didn’t remember a single thing after they had collapsed together, their bodies trembling with endorphins and oxytocin. After Sherlock had gathered John into his arms, pulled him against a sweaty chest, pressing slow, surprisingly chaste kisses over John’s face and forehead. After that, nothing.

The blankness was alarming, even as it brought a faint sense of relief.

John didn’t remember having a single nightmare. Frowning, he realized he didn’t recall dreaming at all, the period after Sherlock snuggled up to him nothing but a dark, empty stretch. His initial shock fading, a peaceful sensation settled over him like a warm blanket, easing the last dredges of tension lingering in his muscles. 

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, John let himself relax, utterly and completely.

Tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s serene face, John turned his head to check the time. The clock on his bedside table said it was a little past 6 am, John’s circadian rhythm just as unerring in waking him up before 7 am today as it ever was. Blinking up at the ceiling, John felt safe, warm, cocooned in a space just their own. Even the light seeping through the curtains seemed to take on the gentle quality of their shared breathing, the contrast made hazy by the cloth draped over the windows. 

John considered staying. Just letting the morning slip by him with Sherlock curled at his side, his sharp face softened by sleep. But his bladder ached, uncomfortably full, the pressure of Sherlock’s leg thrown over him making him squirm. 

Slipping carefully out from under Sherlock’s sprawl, John padded across the room to the door. The floorboards were cold underfoot, the fire long since burnt out, letting frigid air creep inside the farmhouse.

After relieving himself, John pulled a face at the sticky, dried cum on his stomach and chest. He wet a cloth and scrubbed himself clean, taking the time to brush his teeth and comb his sleep-mussed hair into place.

Refreshed and awake, John returned to the bedroom to slip on soft cotton pyjama bottoms. He glanced at Sherlock, half-hidden by the covers pulled up to his face. The sound of his breathing was soft and even, and John left him to sleep. 

He set the kettle to boil in the kitchen, grateful to find the power had returned in the night. John rested his hands against the edge of the counter as he waited for the element to warm. Through the window, he saw the storm had blown itself out, and the yard was a mess of leaves and wind-swept debris. Pools of water glimmered under the rising sun, painted with the warm colours of the reflected sky. 

John inhaled deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs as it was slowly warmed by the heating kettle.

Everything felt different. In a single night, because of a series of shared moments, a shift had occurred. Instead of feeling off-kilter, unbalanced, he felt...grounded. John wasn’t naive enough to believe that what he and Sherlock had shared was enough to undo the tension wound deep in his bones, to set right the disruption of his life. No one person or moment was capable of erasing John’s past, and it would never be fair of him to expect that. 

In that thought, he found much of what had torn him and Mary apart. There had certainly been more to it than just that, but both of them had looked for something in the other that neither could find in themselves and that had been their undoing. They had each taken and taken, reaching for things neither was able to give. Looking back on his entire relationship with Mary, John realized that, maybe, it had been that way from the start, and they had both tried not to see it. 

Not that John thought he would find the broken, missing pieces of himself in Sherlock. He didn’t expect to, and that was the difference. John wasn’t looking for what he needed in someone else. He had to find it within himself, as cheesy as it sounded. 

Fingers curling around the edge of the counter, John felt he was finally beginning to realize that he was the only one responsible for his happiness. The thought was strangely freeing. 

The kettle began to whistle and he set about making two mugs of tea, his cold hands warmed by the steam drifting from the rims. Still looking out the window, waiting as the water darkened, the tea steeping, John felt Sherlock before he heard him. There was a sudden presence at his back, followed by the soft scuff of a bare foot on the tiled floor. Before he could turn, Sherlock’s arms had corralled him, his larger hands settling next to John’s against the edge of the corner. 

“Morning, John.” His voice was soft, his breath warm as it brushed over the side of John’s neck. Tilting his head back, John leaned into Sherlock’s chest.

“Good morning,” he replied, just as quiet. He felt Sherlock’s smile as lips drifted over the edge of his jaw, trailing back up to his ear. “Sleep well?”

Sherlock’s response was a low hum, rumbling through his chest where it pressed against John’s back. The vibration of it was comforting, and John let his eyes close, leaning further into Sherlock’s embrace. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, standing here in his kitchen, Sherlock wrapping his arms gently around John’s waist. 

The sheer, perfect reality of it took John’s breath away. A quiet chuckle escaped his lips, breathless and impossible to hold back. He felt Sherlock’s smile again, now pressed against his temple. Another soft laugh bubbled up in John’s chest, the sound still a surprise. 

“Something funny?” Sherlock asked. His voice was rough with sleep, velvety and deep, but John still heard the hint of uncertainty at the edges. 

“Not at all,” John said, his lips curling in a small smile. Shaking his head, he shifted back, twisting in Sherlock’s arms. “Just thinking.” Sherlock softened his grip, letting John turn to face him. They were inches apart, barely enough space between their bodies for the light spilling through the window, and Sherlock pulled John closer still. Pressed together from hip to chest, Sherlock looked down at him, his expression inquisitive. 

“Good thoughts?” A little twinge of insecurity lingered in the question, and it made something ache in John’s chest, deep beneath his ribcage. Drawing a breath, he leaned forward, his nose drifting along the side of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Definitely good thoughts,” he murmured, sighing against Sherlock’s skin. In response, Sherlock’s hands slid up John’s back, tracing the dip of his shoulders and the sides of his neck. His fingers stroked the curve of John’s jaw, thumbs brushing cheekbones as he took John’s face between his palms and tilted his face up to kiss him. Feeling Sherlock’s lips against his, first dry and chaste, then parting as their tongues slid together, John was struck by the familiarity of their position. It was an echo, an almost perfect recreation of the first time they had stood here, the first time Sherlock had kissed him, and John had kissed him back.

He did so again, giving himself over to the gentle movement of Sherlock’s mouth, the tender touch of his fingers in John’s hair, the press of their bodies as they leaned into one another. This time, when he felt the hard insistence of Sherlock’s growing arousal, John didn’t even consider moving back. There was nothing close to fear in him this time, nothing that could be considered hesitant.

Gripping Sherlock’s arms, John drew him closer, erasing even the smallest gaps between them. Sherlock’s upper body was bare, his lower half clad in nothing but the pyjama bottoms John leant him the night before. By the way his cock pressed into John through the thin fabric, John was almost certain that, like himself, Sherlock wasn’t wearing anything beneath them. 

A thrill went through him at the realization that the only thing separating them from being skin on skin was flimsy cotton, and a shiver rippled over his arms. In a wordless response, Sherlock sighed into John’s mouth, turning them until his back was against the counter, John pressing Sherlock into the corner between sink and stove. Sherlock’s head tilted down, letting the kiss deepen, and John shifted his legs until one of Sherlock’s thighs slotted between them. Gripping a handful of Sherlock’s hair, John rolled his hips experimentally, grinning with delight when Sherlock shuddered in response, his hands dropping to John’s upper arms. 

“John,” he whispered, looking down at him with heavy, darkening eyes. Panting quietly, John nudged his lower body forward again, making Sherlock moan. The sound was long and low, ragged, and John’s grin faded into a flushed expression of desire, his tongue poking out between his lips as he rolled his hips once more. He was aching, hard enough that it almost hurt, and he ground urgently against the sturdy plane of Sherlock’s thigh. 

Picking up on the tactic, Sherlock mirrored his actions. John felt the solid slide of his cock against his own leg, and the damp spot where the head was leaking into the thin cotton. A strained groan escaped him, and he searched for Sherlock’s lips, finding and biting gently, sucking the lower into his mouth. When he dropped his attention to Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock tilted his head back to bare his throat. John laved his tongue over the rough line of bone beneath the skin, feeling Sherlock exhale shakily beneath his lips. Fastening his mouth over the pulse point, John sucked greedily, not caring that he hadn’t given someone a hickey since he was a horny teenager, hellbent on getting off as often as possible.

God, but Sherlock made him feel like that all over again. The bump and grind of their hips, the pace growing increasingly frantic, sloppy, made John’s blood sing. It drove him nearly wild with desire, made him weak in the knees, Sherlock’s leg between his and his hands on John’s arms barely keeping him up. 

Sherlock shifted slightly, and the angle changed. John groaned helplessly. Ducking his head, Sherlock pressed his face into the curve of John’s shoulder, trying to find a slant that brought their cocks together. John dug his nails against Sherlock’s skin until Sherlock gasped and growled against his neck, hands sweeping down to John’s arse and pulling him around. 

With John backed up against the counter, Sherlock tugged desperately at his hips, John moaning into his mouth as he lifted onto his toes. He reached behind himself, found the edge of the counter and broke the contact between them just enough to boost himself up. The pressure on his shoulder made him gasp, but Sherlock shifted closer, gripping John’s thighs and helping, pushing until John was balanced on the edge of the worktop. 

They came together again, Sherlock moving between John’s legs and gripping John’s thighs where they bracketed his hips. With John’s fingers curled tightly in Sherlock’s hair, they rutted into one another, gasping, kissing, smearing wet, open-mouthed adoration over lips, cheeks, jaws, and necks. Pausing to push down first his then John’s bottoms, Sherlock slicked his hand with a long drag of his tongue, and reached between their shifting hips to grip them both.

As it had the night before, the sensation sent a jolt through John’s body. His head fell back, teeth clicking together as his breath escaped in a loud hiss. “Yes,” he rasped, eyes closed tightly. “Sherlock, fuck, _yes.”_

Sherlock’s lips drifted over John’s bent neck before they were replaced with his tongue, the movements of his hand turning careless and haphazard. He gripped John’s hip and pulled, skidding him to the edge of the counter, pressing their cocks between their bellies as Sherlock came, cursing through his gasps and sighs. His eyes flew open and they fastened on John’s face as he tightened his fingers, stroked harder and rougher until John was coming as well, shuddering and swearing to the rhythm of Sherlock’s wild, unsteady breathing. 

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Sherlock, Sherlock!” 

When the aftershocks faded, John went boneless and nearly slipped off the counter. Sherlock pulled him close, his body softening the fall as they both collapsed to the floor. Chest heaving, feeling hot and flushed and unsteady, John pushed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and tried to remember how to breathe. 

“Christ,” he said weakly, his voice a strained sigh. “That was...bloody hell, that was...” Shaking his head, John leaned back to look into Sherlock’s face. He looked dazed, eyes half-open and hazy. Incredulous, John chuckled and reached out to brush sweaty curls off Sherlock’s forehead. “Fuck,” he said again, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw. “You’re amazing.” 

Sherlock smiled, his cheeks tinted a light pink. He looked radiant, debauched, utterly shameless in his post-sex glow, and John couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Shower?” he asked when Sherlock’s silence drew into something that made the air quiver between them. Sherlock nodded, his lips quirking. 

“Please.”

* * *

They shared a shower, John’s status as ‘definitely no longer a teen-aged boy’ the only thing that kept them from having another go. When they emerged, Sherlock’s hair was a wild mess of curls, standing out from his head in a dark halo that made it impossible for John not to kiss him. Giving in to the urge, he licked past Sherlock’s lips until they were both panting and melting against the wall outside the bathroom.

“If you keep those noises up,” John said, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, and the pulse point where he had Sherlock’s hands pinned up against the wall by his wrists, “this will definitely be going much further than kissing.” 

Nuzzling at the side of John’s neck, Sherlock hummed quietly. “As tempting as that sounds, I promised Mrs. Hudson I would meet her for an early lunch today.” 

John dragged his teeth over Sherlock’s bottom lip before affecting a pout. “And here I thought I might have you all to myself.” He wriggled his hips forward, drawing a low noise from Sherlock. 

“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock replied, his lips tracing over John’s shoulder. “I was told that, if I did not bring you along for said lunch, I was never to darken her doorstep ever again.”

John chuckled. Leaning his head back, he cocked an eyebrow. “Seems a _bit_ dramatic. You sure you’re not just having me on?” 

With a shake of his head, Sherlock broke John’s grip on his wrists and draped his arms around John’s waist. “Certainly not,” he replied, returning John’s sardonic expression with one of his own. “I assure you, she was very stern about it. I’d rather not risk her following through with the threat.” He tilted forward to drop a teasing kiss to the tip of John’s nose.

“Well, if _Mrs. Hudson_ insists, I’d better listen,” John quipped. Standing back, he stretched, Sherlock’s gaze appreciative as it tracked the slow rippling of John’s muscles. “See something you like?” John asked, grinning. He felt bold, brimming with new confidence he hadn’t expected to find in the light of day. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowed. 

“Still too skinny.” 

John aimed a swat at his backside. “Sod off.”

* * *

Dressed and groomed, they walked into town together. Sherlock’s hair was mostly tamed after a quick stop at his own home to change into clean clothes and comb product through the mess, a few curls still out of place. He walked at John’s side with easy strides, and John no longer felt self-conscious as he realized Sherlock was moderating his pace to match John’s. 

At Mrs. Hudson’s, they knocked and waited at the door until it swung open, revealing Billy. His eyes widened at the sight of both of them before a grin split his face.

“Billy,” Sherlock greeted. John just nodded.

“Hullo, Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” Billy said, stepping aside. “Nan’s in the kitchen.” Raising his voice, leading them both into the house, he called, “Set another place at the table, Nan, Sherlock’s brought Doctor Watson.”

“John is fine,” John said, and Billy shot him a smile over his shoulder before they entered the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson looked up from where she was setting a fourth plate on the table, her expression warm as she took in the two of them.

“Oh, good, you brought Doctor Watson,” she cooed, sweeping across the room to draw first Sherlock, then John into an enthusiastic embrace. When she stepped back, she looked both of them over with a shrewd eye and smiled. “Glad to see you two worked things out.” She patted Sherlock’s cheek, and he winced, an immediate flush darkening his face. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” he muttered, his eyes darting to John. “Please.” 

John grinned, clearing his throat as his own blush faded. “Thanks for having me,” he said, changing the subject. “Sorry it’s so last minute.”

Mrs. Hudson waved his words away. “Nonsense,” she trilled, turning back to the stove. “I threatened Sherlock with banishment if he didn’t bring you.” Shooting them both a wink, she chuckled. “I’m just happy he listened. He’s a real sulker when he doesn’t get his way.”

Sherlock’s face reddened further and, instead of defending himself beyond his initial protests, he sank into a seat at the table as if conceding. 

“Well, thanks,” John said, resisting the urge to snort. He also resisted the urge to press a kiss to Sherlock’s burning cheek. Looking around the kitchen, he dusted his hands together restlessly. “Anything I can help with?”

“Oh, you’re a dear, but no, thank you.” Mrs. Hudson turned from the stove with a casserole in her oven mitt-covered hands. “Have a seat. Yes, just there, next to Sherlock. There’s a lad. Billy, the lemonade? Lovely.” She set the steaming dish on the table and took her own seat. “Now,” she said, serving heaping portions onto their plates. “Tell me about the case, Sherlock. Made any progress?”

Sherlock’s face lit up briefly at the opportunity to talk about his work, but the look quickly faded into a dour expression. 

“There was another break-in,” he said, prodding at his food until Mrs. Hudson tapped the back of his hand. He set the fork down with a sigh. “We discovered a pattern, a cyclical basis for the crimes, but nothing more concrete.” He sipped at his lemonade with a frown. Chewing a mouthful of casserole, John lightly bumped Sherlock’s knee with his under the table, earning a small, upward twitch of Sherlock’s lips. 

Across the table, Mrs. Hudson squinted at them. “We?” she asked innocently. “You and Officer Lestrade?”

Picking up his fork again, Sherlock shook his head. “No. John and I.” 

“Oh? When was that?” 

“Last night.” Sherlock took a bite of food, missing the triumphant look Mrs. Hudson shot at Billy, who grinned. 

John busied himself with his plate.

The rest of the meal passed without much prodding from Mrs. Hudson and Billy, and John found himself relaxing into the warmth and comfort of the meal. It felt nice to be included, surrounded by people talking, laughing, sharing their lives together. Despite the past few days, John hadn’t quite realized how isolated he had been, how truly separate he had felt from everyone. It was more than that, though. This felt like family, something John hadn’t had since his parents passed away and Harry lost herself at the bottom of a bottle.

Thinking back, he wasn’t sure he had ever managed to find this feeling with Mary. Even when they were trying, even when things still seemed good between them, well before they found out they would probably never be parents, John hadn’t felt like this. 

He found himself smiling, only noticing when Sherlock glanced his way and raised his eyebrows in a silent query. John shook his head, the smile growing slightly as Sherlock’s eyes softened. Looking at him, John wondered if he had _ever_ felt like this and was hard-pressed to remember a time when he had felt so...whole. Complete. Even if he wasn’t, even if he knew his shoulder still ached and that the nightmares would return—maybe even that very night—John felt like things were turning. That he was finally changing for the better.

He turned his focus back to the conversation as Sherlock frowned and asked Mrs. Hudson, “Are these new?” He was pointing at the curtains hanging over the windows next to the table. Mrs. Hudson nodded.

“Oh, yes!” Wiping her hands on a napkin, she smiled brightly at the pale purple curtains, their lacy edges twitching slowly in the gentle breeze drifting through the cracked window. “A lovely young man came by just the other week with samples. A travelling salesman, I think he was. They’ve only just arrived yesterday. Aren’t they darling?” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, still frowning at the curtains while Mrs. Hudson waited expectantly for his response. When he stayed silent, his eyes narrowed, John cleared his throat and fixed a smile on his face.

“They’re very nice, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, filling the lapse. She grinned at him and heaped another spoonful of food onto his plate. The conversation shifted, Billy talking about a project he had started with Mike at the clinic. John tried to follow along, but his eyes kept drifting back to Sherlock, who was still staring pensively at the curtains. 

* * *

After saying their goodbyes, they wandered back toward John’s farm. Sherlock was quiet, his strange, contemplative demeanour lingering as gravel stirred underfoot. Sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans, John was loath to break the silence, uncertain if doing so would disrupt whatever Sherlock was working over. 

Five minutes down the road, Sherlock suddenly came back to himself with a loud sigh, his eyes glittering as they focused on their surroundings. By now, they were outside of town, paddock fences stretching out into the distance on either side of them. 

“Welcome back,” John said wryly, offering a smile when Sherlock blinked at him in surprise, looking confused.

“I…” he frowned. “Sorry.” 

John shrugged. “No worries, it’s fine.” He rolled his shoulders, gritting his teeth at the faint twinge in the left. “Go anywhere good?” 

Brow furrowed, Sherlock pursed his lips. “Just thinking,” he said, his expression still a little distant. 

“About anything in particular?” John worked to keep his voice casual, but a faint feeling of uncertainty made his heart rate speed up slightly. He couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock was starting to question what had happened between them. If eating lunch together with Mrs. Hudson and Billy had been one move too many when what they’d shared together was still so fresh.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock halted. He reached out, his fingers brushing John’s arm. John stopped to look up at him, his head tilted, and Sherlock stared into his eyes, fine lines creasing the skin of his forehead. 

“I’m not having second thoughts, John,” he said gravely. “Not about us.” The words were firm, heavy with conviction, and John licked his lips, inhaling a low, shaky breath.

“Yeah?” he said, unable to help how quietly the question emerged. Sherlock’s eyes softened, and the light touch of his fingers on John’s arm shifted into a tight grip.

“Yes.” He smiled, smoothing a thumb over the material of John’s shirt. “Absolutely.”

They stood like that for a moment, John looking up at Sherlock, Sherlock stroking over his arm with the pad of his thumb. Finally, John glanced away, clearing his throat. “That’s...that’s good,” he said, his eyes fixed on the far-off shapes of cows, the herd wandering aimlessly through green grass. “I’m glad.” He coughed again before turning back to Sherlock. The detective’s eyes were sharp on John’s face, studying his expression. As if finding what he’d hoped for there, Sherlock smiled again. Wordlessly, the two of them fell back into pace.

“What were you thinking of, then?” John asked after a moment, pulling his eyes off the clouds drifting overhead. The sky was bright and blue, dotted with dabs of white, a stark contrast to the roiling, electric buildup before yesterday’s storm. Sherlock sighed.

“There was something,” he said, frowning. “But I can’t quite…” Shaking his head, he shrugged. “It’ll come to me eventually, I suppose.” He waved a hand as if to banish the thoughts and shot John a side-long glance. “Are you working tomorrow?” 

Caught off-guard by the question, John blinked. “Nope. Free as a bird, me.” Tilting his head, he raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

Sherlock looked pleased, a playful tilt to his lips. “Good,” he said, folding his hands together as they walked. “I was hoping to show you something late tonight. If you’re interested.”

A small grin crept over John’s face. Imbued with an inexplicable cockiness, he said, “If it’s what you showed me last night, then I am _definitely_ interested.”

Sherlock laughed, sounding both amused and surprised. A faint flush darkened his cheeks. “Well, I had something else in mind, but if you’re planning on being insistent…”

With a light-hearted giggle, John bumped his shoulder against Sherlock’s arm. “Maybe we can do both.” Sobering, he smiled up at Sherlock. “Whatever it is, I’d love to see it.” 

The blush still lingered in Sherlock’s pale face. “Good,” he said, offering a cheeky wink that made something warm and soft glow deep in John’s chest. “I promise it will be something worth your attention.”

Nodding, John tucked his hands into his pockets, enjoying the warmth infusing his body, making him feel almost buoyant. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

They parted ways at John’s farm. They stood at the edge of the fruit trees bordering their properties, Sherlock closer than usual as he gently slid his palm down John’s arm to his hand. 

“9 pm tonight,” he said, eyes locked with John’s. “It’s not too late?” 

John shook his head, looking up at him. “No. Not too late.” 

Sherlock’s lips quirked, his fingers tracing a slow, aimless pattern along John’s knuckles. “Good.” He paused, brief uncertainty flickering over his face. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

Eyelids lowering, John sighed softly, watching the way Sherlock’s lashes fluttered at the brush of John’s exhale on his jaw. “I’m sure I will.” 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice rasped, a rough scrape in his throat before John was tilting his head up, the distance between them disappearing as Sherlock bent to meet him halfway. Their lips brushed, light and tenuous, then more firmly. Sherlock’s hand tightened on his, their fingers twining, John brushing curls away from Sherlock’s forehead when their tongues met. Sherlock sighed, then groaned, the low sound vibrating in his chest. John pressed closer, cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck to deepen the kiss. 

When they broke apart, both panting quietly, John saw twin spots of colour in Sherlock’s face, high on his sharp cheekbones, and knew he must look the same. 

“See you tonight, John,” Sherlock murmured. He ducked to brush his lips over John’s temple, a brief, blazing hint of contact that made John smile and sigh shakily. 

“Tonight,” he replied, his throat tight. “See you then.” 

Sherlock grinned, squeezed John’s hand one last time, then turned and strode away through the trees. 

Watching him go, John felt the uneven rush of his pulse in his lips, and his smile widened. 

* * *

John spent the afternoon stripping the sheets, doing laundry, remaking the bed, cleaning leaves from the gutters, and raking up debris the storm had blown about the yard. The work was invigorating in a way that his prior attempts at exhaustion weren’t. Even with the faint ache in his shoulder, he felt pleasantly tired and treated himself to a second shower, where he massaged and warmed tense muscles with gentle hands. 

Evening found him settled on the porch with a book in one hand and Greg’s homebrew in the other, the cool, malty drink tasting nearly perfect in the warm hum of the dwindling day. John sat on the steps with an empty plate next to him, his stomach pleasantly full with the leftovers Sherlock had obstinately placed in his fridge. A smile tugged at his lips with the memory of Sherlock’s persistence. 

Watching the sunset, John was struck by the restful atmosphere of the oncoming night. He flashed back to the times he had watched the sky change and darken, standing out here alone, feeling distant from himself and everyone else, and wondered how much longer he might feel that way. 

With the lingering feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his, echoing back from earlier, John tried to remind himself that there was still much to be done. He had a long path ahead of him, even if he had finally started taking the first steps toward finding who he was, in this new, changed reality. He would need to let go of who he had been, of the John from his childhood, the John who had been a soldier, the John who had married a woman too young and too fast, who had struggled to make a marriage work that was broken from the start.

Glancing skyward, he watched stars wink into view, the blue edges of the horizon sinking into black as the last hues of the sunset faded from sight. 

A rustle made him look up, and John caught a flash of white before Sherlock emerged from the trees. With a flick of his wrist to check his watch, John saw it was hardly past six, and he turned his attention back to Sherlock in time to catch the darkening light in his eyes. Before he climbed the stairs and knelt in front of John, taking his face gently between his hands, John noted how Sherlock’s gaze mirrored the changing light of the sky. 

Their mouths came together, and his thoughts ceased, fading into silence. John parted his lips, letting Sherlock’s tongue slip past to taste his soft sigh, drawing him closer with a firm grip on Sherlock’s shoulders. 

As they separated, Sherlock leaning back mere inches to look John in the eyes with his burning gaze, John blinked, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re early.”

Sherlock smiled, a slow, demure quirk of his lips. “I thought you wanted to do both my thing and your thing, so I took it upon myself to arrive with such accommodation in mind.” 

“‘My thing?’” John repeated, chuckling. “That mean you’re just humouring me?”

Sherlock’s smirk sent a shiver of anticipation down John’s spine. Leaning closer, Sherlock’s lips brushed his jaw, then the tender skin beneath his ear. “I rather thought,” he breathed, his voice a rough whisper, “that it was the other way around.”

“Oh, sure,” John teased, turning his head to ghost his lips over Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re _such_ a nuisance.” 

“So I’ve been told.” Sherlock’s tone was dry, not nearly as playful as John expected. Leaning back, gripping Sherlock’s sharp chin between thumb and forefinger, he frowned.

“Whoever told you that is a tosser,” he said emphatically. Sherlock’s eyes flickered with something like hope, and John tilted forward to kiss him gently before pressing their foreheads together. “Listen to me, Sherlock—if someone told you that you were too difficult to bother with, they were wrong.” John closed his eyes, swallowing around a sudden tightness as he realized the same words could apply to him. Trying to moderate the sobriety of the moment, he added, “Also, if Mycroft said anything like that to you, I’ll pop his head off.”

Sherlock laughed, sounding shocked that John had said something so amusing. 

“I would like that,” he said, his tone cheeky. “But only if I can watch.”

“Deal,” John replied, smiling. Lips softening, he leaned in to kiss Sherlock again before he stood and took his hand, leading him inside to make slow, aching love to each other. John made Sherlock arch his back and open for him, and Sherlock sighed his release over John’s parted lips.

* * *

Nine o’clock found them leaving the farmhouse behind, the porch light glowing warm and yellow at their backs as they set off into the dark. 

The path to town was unlit, and John blinked while his eyes adjusted. The night was quiet, temperate, humming warm and ready against their skin. John felt a thrill of possibility, the hair rising on the back of his neck when Sherlock’s hand brushed his. Their fingers touched, shifted and twined. They walked hand-in-hand, the path rough but steady underfoot. 

John felt a silvery bliss sink over him. It warmed his body, still softened by the intimacy he had shared with Sherlock earlier, first on the porch, then between tangled sheets. He shivered at the memory of the way they had found and filled one another, coming together in movement and climax, each pressed against the other, clinging with sticky, sweat-damp skin. At the involuntary shudder, Sherlock’s hand tightened on his, his steps taking him close enough that their shoulders brushed.

 _This is it,_ John thought. For him, this was it. The way John felt, in that moment, with his own scent still lingering on Sherlock’s skin, was something immense. Even as the weight of it pressed on his chest, threatening to bring him to his knees, John exhaled deeply, letting any trepidation ease away. 

Sherlock’s head tilted, his eyes bright and silver in the dark as they moved over John’s face. John looked back at him, letting the overwhelming emotion inside him shine through the connection, unafraid of what he might receive in return. Knowing that he would be safe, that Sherlock would understand.

Sherlock smiled, and John’s shoulders relaxed. 

They continued on, their paces matched, watching the night spread out before them. A low hum filled the air, and a small, flickering light winked into existence inches from John’s face. He halted, startled, eyes widening as it came closer and closer, making him cross-eyed before darting away. John exhaled, releasing the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, heart racing as he slowly adjusted out of the overreaction of his battle-primed body. Still breathing long and slow, he watched another light appear, followed by several more, dancing through the humid air.

Sherlock's lips brushed his ear, and John shivered at the sound of his whisper. “Fireflies.” He stroked his thumb over the ridge of John’s knuckles. “Very common out here.”

“Never seen them before,” John said, eyes fixed on the flickering glow of the insects as they darted through the air. 

“No,” Sherlock replied, his voice quiet. “Not very common in London.” He paused before adding, “Or Afghanistan, I suppose.”

Looking at him, John saw Sherlock looked uncertain, his face illuminated with a dim, wavering light by the flickering of the glow worms. John gripped his hand tightly, a brief squeeze of reassurance. 

“No.” When a glow-worm drifted between them, John squinted, watching it pass by. “Definitely didn’t see anything like this in Afghanistan.” 

They watched the insects for a moment, taking in the way they drifted and darted, their tenuous lights shimmering in sporadic flashes through the night air. When the fireflies moved on, fading into the dark, John and Sherlock continued walking, fingers still laced together. 

The small town rose around them as they cleared the path, their steps made visible by the buzzing illumination of porch and streetlights. It was quiet, even in the town square, and John frowned, realizing that the windows of every house they passed were black. Even the pub was dark and silent, usually bustling and inviting at this hour. 

“Where is everyone?” he asked, turning to glance behind them. “It’s not even ten yet.” Sherlock’s hand tugged at his, and John walked on, looking quizzically up at Sherlock. 

“Just a bit further,” Sherlock promised, an edge to his voice. When the clouds parted overhead letting moonlight shine through, John saw something like anticipation in Sherlock’s silvery eyes. Despite the curiousity burning inside him, John bit his tongue and let himself be pulled onward. 

Sherlock took him through town, toward the outskirts. As they walked past more silent houses, John realized he had never been this way. The scenery turned unfamiliar, and his feet faltered, the sight of unexplored territory making his breath come loud and fast. Even as he told himself that it was okay, that this wasn’t the desert, that he was safe and nowhere near the threat of warfare, John felt his heart hammering in his chest. 

He drew to a stop, pulling Sherlock to a halt as well, turning his head in confusion. Taking in John’s wide-eyed expression, the uneven, hard breaths making his chest heave with each inhale, he blinked. He looked startled and uncertain, and the sight made John gasp, shaking his arm as he wrenched his hand from Sherlock’s grasp. As he whirled away, John clenched his fingers into fists and balled them against his tightly-shut eyes. 

“Sorry,” he said, barely managing the words through his panting. “I just—just need a moment.” Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he jolted at the feeling of Sherlock at his back. The movement was unexpected, and John struggled not to wrench around to face the man behind him. Struggled not to lunge away or toward him, both reactions borne from fear and an instinct ingrained into him by three years spent in an active warzone. 

With his back still turned, John started as arms circled him from behind. They pinned his jerking hands to his sides, the sensation of being trapped sending his heart rate skyrocketing. He twitched, eyes flashing open, then Sherlock’s front was pressed along the curve of John’s bent spine as John curled inward. Lips drifted over the nape of his neck.

“I’ve got you, John.” Sherlock's voice, a soft, confident whisper, brushed John’s ear. “I’ve got you.” 

John shuddered, Sherlock’s words slowly slipping through the hazy fog threatening to reduce his cognitive functions into a panicked, fearful mess. He sucked in a breath, shaky and loud, and Sherlock’s arms tightened around him.

“I—I…” John shook his head, clenching his teeth when his body tensed. His eyes darted around, brain trying to superimpose the images of burnt-out, desert-coloured ruins over the dark, silent houses around them. “I’m…” he closed his eyes tightly, fighting the trauma response ripping through him. John breathed deeply, finally managing an inhale that helped some of the dizziness fade from his head.

Sherlock’s arms loosened, no longer pinning John’s elbows to his sides. His hands rubbed gently over John’s forearms, up to his shoulders and back down, his stubble brushing John’s temple where his cheek rested. 

“You’re safe, John,” he said, still in that steady whisper. John felt some of the tension ease, and he focused on the rasp of skin on skin, Sherlock’s fingers tracing the shape of his wrists under the hem of his sleeves. Using the contact between them to ground himself, John pictured his farmhouse. The familiar gravel path, the waving grass that bordered his front yard. He thought of flowering fruit trees, the smell of wet earth, heard the low, vibrating hum of bees. He imagined Sherlock’s face, eyes pale and warm, looking down at him as he stood close, or up at him from beneath lowered lashes as John stroked over his bare body. 

“Sherlock,” John sighed, his eyes opening again. He took in the dark, unfamiliar shapes of houses and felt nothing more than the faint ebb of adrenaline as it dissipated. It left him feeling heavy, and Sherlock pulled him closer, his chest warm against John’s back.

“Trust me.” It was a soft entreaty, Sherlock’s breath stirring the fine hair along the side of John’s neck as he pressed a kiss there. 

Blinking, feeling the panic-driven processes of his body begin to still, John nodded. He let his hands fall loose, fingers uncurling, and he tilted his head back against Sherlock’s, whispering, “I do.” He rolled his cheek along Sherlock’s jaw, breathing out the last dregs of anxiety. “I trust you, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Dip You in Honey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oqA0SjdbYc8) \- The Wombats  
> [Every Other Freckle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJiyw4s3vmU) \- Alt-J  
> [Love You Madly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_WqRc1H4ks) \- Dan Mangan (Cake cover)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter of the story! If you're here, make sure you didn't skip chapter 7, as it was also posted today :)

Once John felt settled again, safe back in his body, Sherlock took his hand and drew him onward. As they walked through unfamiliar landscape, John kept his eyes on his feet, refusing to let his mind paint traumatic scenery over their surroundings. When he felt himself tensing, he looked at the man beside him. He traced the familiar planes of Sherlock's face with hungry eyes, the hills of his knuckles with starved fingers until the stirrings of uncertainty faded.

Sherlock had asked John to trust him. A man of his word, John meant it when he said he did. 

As they walked through the dark, the time ticking closer toward ten o’clock, John thought he felt a change in the air. At his side, Sherlock seemed to vibrate with barely contained anticipation, and John glanced at him, curious. But Sherlock just shot him a playful smile, and John told himself to be patient.

They turned a corner, leaving the town behind, and John paused. There was a new sound, something simultaneously familiar and not, something he knew he should be able to place but couldn’t. Sherlock waited, looking at him in silence until John started forward again, his pace a little slower. His eyes narrowed, John strained his ears, listening, trying to make sense of the noise. It was like a rushing, a distant crash, reminiscent of strong winds through trees. And yet, it wasn’t quite that. The sound reminded him of something, of childhood memories, of bliss somehow forgotten.

A breeze rose, warm and languid. It tousled John’s hair, blew toward them, coming from the direction they walked in. Inhaling with parted lips, John tasted salt and heat, the echo of sunshine caught in grains, and his eyes widened.

“The ocean?” Turning his head, John blinked at Sherlock. “You’re taking me to a beach?” 

Sherlock’s lips turned up at the corners. Instead of answering, he quickened his pace, pulling John along with him. John hurried to keep up, heart hammering in his chest as the smell of seaweed and saltwater grew stronger.

They passed over a cobblestone walking bridge, through a copse of tall trees. The tops blocked the starry sky, leaving them in brief, impenetrable darkness. Listening to Sherlock’s breathing, anchored by their clasped hands, John moved through the black and into silvery moonlight as they emerged from the gloom. 

His shoes left behind hard stone and sank into soft sand, and John’s eyes widened. 

Ahead of them, stretching away into the dark, was the ocean. The surface was an inky black, dotted with stars and smeared with clouds, set afire with the moonlight, a rippling, shifting mirror of the sky. 

Staring out at the water, John’s mouth went dry. The air was warm and thick with salt, and any memory of arid desert scenery was banished by the sight before them. Waves rose, fell, and lapped at the shoreline, filling John’s ears with the restless sound of the tide.

Sherlock tugged at his hand, and John started forward again, his boots slipping in the soft, sinking sand underfoot. Enchanted by the rise and fall of the water, John finally noticed that they weren’t alone. People dotted the beach, both in groups and alone, staring out at the black horizon as Sherlock led John toward a pier. 

Each footstep thumped against salt-worn wood, Sherlock pulling John to the edge of a short boardwalk. The smell of the ocean filled John’s lungs with every inhale, a bit of himself floating away in the salty breeze whenever he breathed out, scattered over the slow rocking motion of the waves. 

There were lights on the water. As John squinted, he saw they were floating lanterns, anchored to the posts of the pier. Before he could ask what they were for, Sherlock nudged him and nodded toward the water. With his hands on the railing, John leaned out and looked down, frowning. His eyes narrowed, widened, and his lips parted around a soft _oh_ of surprise.

The water was glowing. Not just from the reflections of the floating lanterns, but from something else, something tinged with a faint blue-green. It looked ethereal, the gently rolling waves made luminous with the pale, phosphorescent light. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. “What is it?”

“Jellyfish.” Sherlock’s voice was as soft as his, almost as if it speaking any louder would shatter the illusion. “They travel through the cove, and their bioluminescence makes them glow.” He leaned closer, speaking into John’s ear as he pointed out into the water. “The lanterns draw them nearer.” 

“It’s amazing,” John said, the words quiet and filled with wonder. “Does it happen every night?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Once a year, as spring fades into summer.” His lips curled in a small smile, and John found his eyes finally drifting from the jellyfish spectacle to the man at his side. Sherlock’s face was luminous, glowing from the moonlight overhead and the lanterns below, and John’s breath caught in his throat. Sherlock looked back at him, his expression softening, the rough angles of his sharp face gentled by the low light. “It’s thought to be good luck, watching them. People around town call it the ‘Dance of the Moonlight Jellies.’” 

“And you?” John asked, allowing a hint of teasing to filter through his muted words. “Do you think that, too?”

Sherlock scoffed, though the sound was quiet and without rancour. “I hardly believe in luck, John.” His lips pressed together then parted, eyes darkening as they moved over John’s face. “Though, there could be evidence to the contrary, if I were to allow myself to look.” 

“Maybe you should,” John replied, smirking. “Allow yourself to look, I mean.” Emboldened by the way Sherlock’s gaze dropped to his lips, John tilted forward to meet him, their mouths finding one another in the vibrant glow of the spectacle passing them by. He nibbled at Sherlock’s upper lip, drawing both it and Sherlock’s resultant groan into his mouth. One of Sherlock’s large, warm hands slipped inside John’s jacket, palm pressing over the beat of his heart. The contact made his pulse quicken, and John kissed Sherlock harder, smiling at the wonder of it all.

As they parted, Sherlock held John in place with a hand on the nape of John’s neck, looking down into his eyes, searching. Slowly, seeming to choose each word with care, he whispered, “If luck is what brought us here, brought you to me, then I’ll never question its existence again.” 

John’s smile widened, and he allowed himself another taste of Sherlock’s lips before they both returned to watching the jellyfish, their pale, luminous bodies emphasizing the dark depths of the water below.

“I can’t believe there’s a beach here,” John said, frowning. “I had no idea.” 

Sherlock’s arm circled his shoulders, fingers stroking over the side of John’s bicep. “This town has lots of secrets if you know where to look.” The corner of his mouth twitched, curving up slightly. “Some of them are even good ones.” 

John chuckled. “I’d say this one is great.” Looking at him, Sherlock’s eyes glimmered. They lapsed into silence again until John broke it once more. “Anything else like this happen?” At Sherlock’s inquisitive blink, he clarified, “You know, festivals, events.”

Tapping a finger to his bottom lip, Sherlock looked thoughtful. “A few. I don’t participate in most, granted, but I know of them.” He frowned. “There’s the town potluck, in the fall. The flower dance in the spring...already passed,” he added, catching John’s playful grin and grinning back. “Then there’s the fair, and All Hallow’s Eve in October. Oh, and the Night Market.”

John tilted his head. “The night market? What’s that?”

“It’s in the winter. Travelling traders come to the area,” Sherlock explained. “They set up their stalls in the square for the weekend, and people purchase things like fruit, vegetables, handmade goods, etcetera.” Sherlock sighed. “There’s one man, he often has rare seeds. I’ve grown a few harder-to-find varieties of flowers from him. I almost wish he would come more often.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, John asked, “Like a travelling salesman?” 

Sherlock nodded, smoothing a finger over his jaw thoughtfully. “Yes, that would be— _oh.”_ He broke off mid-sentence with a low gasp. Brow furrowed, John glanced at him.

“Oh?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide and fixed straight ahead. They looked unfocused, staring past the view, Sherlock’s thoughts already miles away. “That’s it, John,” he breathed, his voice filled with wonder. 

“What’s it?” John asked, his frown deepening. Sherlock whirled, and John startled, surprised at the sudden and excited energy emanating from the detective. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Sherlock replied. He gripped John tightly by his upper arms, his eyes glimmering in the gloom. “In fact, everything is right, perfect! John, you’re a genius!” Before John could respond, Sherlock was bending toward him, pressing a loud, enthusiastically smacking kiss on John’s mouth. He straightened before John could react, blinking dazedly up at the man still holding him by the arms.

“I am?” he asked, bewildered. Sherlock nodded, his hands squeezing around John’s biceps. 

“Oh, you are, John. You are brilliant, a true light in the dark.” He dropped another kiss on John, this time in his wind-tousled hair, and released his arms to grab his hand. “Come on.” 

“What?” John shot a look at the jellyfish as Sherlock began towing him down the pier, back toward the beach. “But—the moonlight jellies.” 

“They’ll be back next year,” Sherlock promised, dismissing further arguments with a wave of his hand and only pausing to let John catch up. He tangled their fingers together, and John looked up at him, taking in his exultant face. “Right now, we have a case to solve.” 

Stunned, John followed in his wake, Sherlock leading him brusquely across the beach. There were people seated in the sand on blankets and towels, and John muttered apologies to everyone they passed, Sherlock seemingly oblivious as he blocked their view of the water. They came to an abrupt halt, Sherlock squinting in the dark, scanning for what John didn’t know, before he tugged John along again, making a beeline for a small group of people seated near the trees. 

As they neared the gathering, John was able to make out faces in the semi-darkness. He recognized Greg and his sergeant, Donovan, as well as Mike and Molly. 

“Hey Sherlock, John,” Greg greeted them first, the others turning to wave hello as well. “Come to watch the jellies?”

“Well, we did—” John began, but Sherlock cut in, talking over both of them. 

“A salesman,” he said, brash and feverishly animated. “It’s a salesman!” 

Bemused, Greg looked at John, who just shrugged. “I’ve no idea. All I know is I’m, apparently, brilliant.”

“Yes, John, you are,” Sherlock said, his voice impatient. He stepped closer, accidentally kicking sand onto the towel. Sally Donovan snapped at him but he ignored her, his glittering eyes on Greg. “The break-ins, Lestrade. The cyclical pattern!” His hands rose with his enthusiasm. “He’s a salesman—a _travelling_ salesman. That’s why there are gaps, he must only come back every few years before leaving the area.” Sherlock’s words were rushing together with his need to get them out, to make Greg understand. “It’s the perfect alibi!”

Greg’s eyes grew wider and wider, and he leapt to his feet when Sherlock had finished. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, realization filtering over his face. “It fits. But how do we confirm it?” 

Sherlock frowned. He was silent for a second, considering the question. At his side, John shared an uncertain look with Mike and Molly. Sally just looked bored. Sherlock came back with a surge of energy, whirling on his heel and shouting, “Mrs. Hudson!” at the top of his lungs. While John flinched, Sherlock took off in the direction of an answering voice, Greg hurrying after him. 

“So,” John said, his smile strained, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck as Molly, Mike, and Sally all looked at him with wide eyes. “How’s everyone?”

A holler drew his attention, Sherlock’s voice echoing over the beach: “Hurry up, John!”

Offering an apologetic wave, John turned and jogged toward Sherlock, following the sound of his voice. The sand was soft, slipping under his boots. John focused on the feeling of the salt-heavy breeze on his face and the soft rush of the ocean, resisting the urge to let his mind pull him back to very different sand, in a very different part of the world. 

When he caught up to Sherlock, he found him and Greg standing with Mrs. Hudson and Billy, a soft, paisley blanket draped on the ground at their feet.

“This salesman, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock was saying, his eyes sharp and intent on her face. “You said he came by last week or so?”

“Yes, that’s right. He sold me those lovely new curtains.” Mrs. Hudson blinked, looking past them as John approached. “Oh, hello, John.”

John nodded his greeting, breathing deeply as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Before the break-in?” he pressed. Mrs. Hudson frowned, paused, and gasped. 

“Oh!” she said, a hand fluttering to her breast. “He wasn’t—you think he’s the burglar? But, he comes here so often!” 

Sherlock huffed. Standing at John’s side, he nearly vibrated with energy. “How often does he come, Mrs. Hudson?”

She considered the question. Agitated, Sherlock reached out and found John’s hand, nearly crushing it with his impatience. Despite his wince of pain, John thought it endearing, and he stroked a soothing thumb over the side of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s grip loosened, and he shot John a brief glance of gratitude before turning his attention back to Mrs. Hudson as she answered.

“Every few years, I’d say. Not every year, maybe every second?” She tilted her head thoughtfully, and Sherlock breathed a loud, shuddering sigh. 

“Is it twice a year? Every two years or so? Stays about a week?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, her eyes lighting up. “Yes,” she said, nodding again. “Yes, that sounds right.”

Sherlock turned to Greg, his face triumphant. “I think you have your burglar, Lestrade.” 

“Bloody hell, it sounds like I do.” Greg’s teeth flashed in the dark, and he reached out to grip Sherlock’s arm. “How about we go bring him in?” Sherlock returned the grin, turning to include John in the glow.

“John? You up for it?”

Looking at Sherlock, watching the way the moonlight played off his eager face, John smirked. 

“Count me in.” Anything else he might have added was erased by Sherlock surging forward, pressing a hard kiss to his lips. Startled by the unexpected public display, John’s eyes widened before sliding shut, and, after a moment, he was kissing back, feeling Sherlock’s smile against his mouth.

“Oi!” Greg barked behind them, nearly drowned out by Mrs. Hudson’s ecstatic clapping. “Save it for later, we have a suspect to catch!” 

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently, his lips softening on John’s as he paused to snap, “If I have to know that you and my brother share a bed, you can wait five bloody seconds while I kiss John.” 

John’s face flushed at the words, listening to Greg call Sherlock a ‘sodding wanker’ under his breath until Sherlock kissed him again and his focus shattered.

* * *

In the end, the case wrapped up with a whimper, rather than a bang.

After leaving the beach, Greg rounded up Sally and a few other officers, and they surrounded the town’s only accommodations: the small inn above the pub. With almost everyone still watching the jellyfish, it was all too easy for the police to have the pub owner unlock the door and let them inside without fuss.

Only one room was booked, rented by a Jacob Hobbes. Greg knocked, called for the man to open the door, and unlocked it with the main key when he refused. Hobbes made a half-hearted attempt at escape, but the room was on the second floor, and the window hardly opened wide enough for a bird to pass through, nevermind a full-grown man. 

With Hobbes spitting curses and expressing his indignity, Sherlock entered the room, his sharp eyes sweeping the space. He ignored the insults as John hovered next to him, eyeing Hobbes and resisting the urge to knock his fist into the ranting man’s face. Instead, he held himself steady, watching Sherlock scour the room and Hobbes’ belongings. John was rewarded when Sherlock held up a silver picture frame and a handful of knick-knacks, his expression exultant. 

With the evidence uncovered, Greg strode forward to grip Hobbes by the arm, his face grim.

“Jacob Hobbes,” he began, slipping the handcuffs from his back pocket. “You are under arrest for theft, property damage, and breaking and entering.” Greg read the man his rights and handed him off to Sally, who led him from the room, an unamused look on her face as the man snarled at her. 

The room emptied of officers. Only John, Greg and Sherlock remained, Sherlock still aglow with the rush of solving the case.

“Well done, Sherlock.” Greg clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Knew you’d get it eventually.” 

Sherlock rocked on his heels, evidently pleased and only barely trying to hide it. “Couldn’t have solved it without John,” he replied, eyes flickering toward John. “If not for his words, it could have been ages before I made the connection.”

One of Greg’s brows rose, and he gave the two of them a knowing look. “Well, I hope he’ll hang around. I think he makes you a better man—I mean, _detective_.” He winked, and John stared at his feet, his face flushing. At his side, Sherlock replied with a grave voice.

“I agree.” John looked up in surprise to find Sherlock’s eyes on him, his gaze intent. “He is...invaluable.” 

Clearing his throat, Greg nodded and took a step back. “Well, I’m off. Got to file the arrest paperwork.” His smile slightly sly, he tipped another wink at John. “See you around.” With that, he turned and left, his boots loud as he descended the steps to the first floor.

Left alone with Sherlock, John once more found his eyes on his boots. His brow furrowed as he searched for the words he wanted, Sherlock quiet and patient beside him. When he finally looked up, John blinked to find Sherlock still watching him.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, uncertainty dragging the question from his lips. “What you said?” John coughed, squinting. “That I’m...you know.” He made a helpless gesture, unable to repeat the compliment Sherlock had bestowed him. 

Sherlock’s shoes scuffed over the wood floor as he stepped closer. He reached out with one hand to tilt John’s chin up, bringing his eyes back on him. “Of course, John,” he said softly, his expression stern. “Why would I lie?” 

Staring at him, John searched Sherlock’s face, searched his eyes, looking for any flicker of doubt or delusion. When he found none, Sherlock remaining stoic and genuine beneath his gaze, he relaxed.

“You wouldn’t.” His throat dry from embarrassment, John swallowed. He wet his lips and tried for a smile, surprised when it fit. A small bit of his old confidence returned, filtering through the built-up insecurities. “I know you wouldn’t.” 

Holding his eyes, Sherlock nodded, mirroring John’s expression. “You are invaluable to me, John. Not simply for your help with this case, but for who you are. You…” his brow furrowed, eyes narrowing before they opened fully again. “You came into my life at a strange time, just as I came into yours. And, between you and me, I think the timing could not have been better.” He shrugged, a hint of vulnerability tingeing his words. “Had it been another time in our lives, I’m not sure either of us would have realized the potential or even noticed the other. Perhaps we would have been friends, perhaps not. All I know is that we are better for finding one another, and I do not wish to spend a minute doubting that.” Sherlock lifted a hand, his fingers brushing over John’s cheek. “Not one second.” 

His throat feeling tight, John looked up at him and nodded. “No,” he agreed. “Not one.” 

* * *

_Six Months Later_

John’s eyes were filled with sand. He could taste it, a grit between his teeth, choking as it spilled down his throat. Coughing, he brought up mouthfuls of red particulate, but no matter how much he gagged and heaved, it never stopped. It was filling him up, crushing and drowning him with sand, and he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to scream. 

“John.” 

The sound of his name tore the dream apart, and John rocketed upward, narrowly avoiding smacking his head into Sherlock’s. Chest heaving, he pulled loud, uneven breaths into his mouth, eyes wide and blinking in the pale morning light. Sitting next to him, having shifted out of the way of John’s mad rush to sit up, Sherlock hovered. He kept his distance while John calmed himself, knowing better than to touch John when he was coming out of a nightmare. His eyes were anxious as he waited patiently.

When the adrenaline began to fade, taking the last remnants of the dream with it, John closed his eyes. He slumped, letting his body tilt sideways, into Sherlock’s waiting arms. They enfolded him, as they always did after the nightmares pulled him from sleep. Though they didn’t come as often as they used to, when they did, they were just as sharp as before, if not more so. John’s new therapist had told him it wasn’t uncommon—that his trauma would fight him even as he fought it, ingrained as it was into both his body and his mind.

His cheek pressed against Sherlock’s sternum, John listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, counting out beats as Sherlock’s quickened pulse began to slow, mimicking John’s.

“What was it this time?” Sherlock asked, his voice a low rumble through his chest. The sound of it vibrated into John’s jaw. 

His eyes still closed, John sighed. He tilted his head, burrowing deeper into Sherlock’s embrace. “Sand,” he muttered. He didn’t elaborate, knowing Sherlock would understand. Sherlock held him tighter in response.

“Again.” It wasn’t a question, and John nodded. Now that the nightmare had dissolved, he felt exhausted, as if his sleep had been wiped away by its presence. Sherlock’s lips brushed his forehead, and John focused back on his breathing.

“We don’t have to go tonight if you’re not up for it.” 

As he leaned away from the comfort of Sherlock’s arms, John opened his eyes and squinted at him. “Are you trying to use my PTSD as an excuse to avoid your brother’s dinner party?” Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. He studied John’s face for a moment, eyes narrowing until a whine burst out of him. 

“Mycroft is going to be absolutely insufferable!” Releasing John, he flopped back onto the mattress, arms thumping against the sheets as he went into full sulk-mode. “It’s _Lestrade’s_ promotion, I don’t know why Mycroft has to be there at all.” He paused, scowling. “Or us, for that matter.”

Amused, John settled himself on top of the pouting detective. He folded his arms on Sherlock’s chest, setting his chin on the shelf they made. “Mycroft will be there because Greg is his husband, and you’re going because you’re his brother-in-law. And I’m…” he paused before shrugging. “I’m going because I’m your tag-along.”

Sherlock sat up, catching and holding John tightly as he nearly dislodged him from his perch. “How dare you,” he said, bracketing John’s face between his hands. “You are so much more than that.” His voice dropped into a low, throaty rumble. “You, John Watson, are everything to me.” He blinked slowly, eyelashes fluttering low over his pale eyes. His breath was hot on John’s neck, lips lightly brushing the curve of John’s bare shoulder.

John pinched him. “Stop trying to seduce your way out of the party. We’re going.”

Gently shoving John’s face away with a growl, Sherlock flopped backwards again. “Dammit,” he sighed, scowling. “I thought for sure that would work.” 

“And, yet, it didn’t,” John quipped. As he slid out of bed, he grinned, looking over his shoulder to find Sherlock’s eyes locked on his naked backside. “Not sure why you bothered.”

“Because Mycroft is a tosser, and I don’t want to go.” Sherlock crawled to the end of the bed and flopped onto his back. His head hung off the edge as he watched John pull on his pants. 

“Surely, you must have gotten along when you were kids?” John asked, stuffing a leg into his jeans. He turned to catch Sherlock’s eye roll.

“Mycroft was _born_ insufferable,” Sherlock sighed. He turned onto his stomach, the sheets draped precariously over his unclothed body, long legs stretched out behind him. “It’s a wonder our parents didn’t throw him in the duck pond.”

“Ah,” John said, grinning as he turned to open the top drawer of the dresser. “And I imagine you were a perfect little angel.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock stretched, his mouth opening wide in a yawn. 

Reaching inside the drawer to find his socks, John paused. His eyes narrowed, and he shot Sherlock a look over his shoulder. “Did you put my socks into an index?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock repeated, head propped up by his hands, his elbows pressed into the mattress. “Yours were atrociously unsorted.” He wrinkled his nose. “Does it make you regret my moving in?” A hint of doubt flickered over his face, eyes uncertain. With a soft look, John moved toward the bed, bending to tilt Sherlock’s head up and press a tender, lingering kiss to his lips. When he stepped away, Sherlock’s expression was blissful, eyes half-open and mouth curved in a small smile.

“Not at all.” John bent to put on his socks. “I appreciate it. Plus,” he added as he straightened, a playful grin on his face. “Couldn’t kick you out if I wanted, not with your place turned into a workshop.” 

Still lying on his stomach, Sherlock absently tapped his ankles together in the air, long legs bent at the knee. “The bedroom is still there,” he offered, eyes glowing with the remnants of his contentment.

“Not going to send you away,” John reassured him, pulling a shirt over his head. Fully dressed, he crossed the room to pull the curtains back, letting light inside. He paused to swat Sherlock on the backside, eliciting a playful wiggle from the man on the bed. “Come on, you promised you’d help with the fruit trees.” 

Groaning, Sherlock rolled off the edge of the bed, rising to his feet in a fluid, graceful movement. “Fine,” he huffed, accosting John on his way to the door. “But not before I’ve said good-morning.” 

With a put-upon expression and an eye-roll, John sighed. “Well, get on with it, then.” He snorted, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

“Bossy, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with amusement as he looped an arm around John’s waist, reeling him into his naked body. “One might think you didn’t enjoy it as much as I do.”

“One would be wrong,” John quipped, settling his hands on Sherlock’s bony hips. He tilted his head, stretching up toward Sherlock, their lips meeting partway. The kiss was warm and familiar, Sherlock’s hand stroking under John’s shirt to touch sleep-warmed skin, his fingers carding through the silver-shot strands of John’s hair. It had grown out, a far cry from the close crop he had kept in the army, and Sherlock seemed to take any and all chances he got to muss it with lingering touches. 

Breathing Sherlock’s soft sigh into his mouth, pressing into his warm form, John wondered how he had ever gotten so lucky, to have the opportunity to lean into a loved body and feel the ground firmly beneath his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs for this chapter:**
> 
> [Honey Bee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suvHXdKWGi8) \- The Kooks  
> [Sounds Like Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMTeXX2Osyo) \- Big Little Lions  
> [Young and Beautiful](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVAIFSube-o) \- Glass Animals (Lana Del Rey cover)
> 
> \------
> 
> That's it, folks! Thank you, everyone who has read this, and who will read this in the future. This story holds a piece of my soul in it, and I loved writing our Baker Street Boys in this setting. I am so touched by the responses I've received so far from readers and want to thank all of you for taking the time to, yet again, accompany me through another story. ♥️🐝

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [every year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553793) by [emilycare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilycare/pseuds/emilycare)
  * [Refuge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799223) by [Sam_the_Skald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald)




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